But not extinguished quite fast enough. As I pull back the covers, I see there is something lying there on my clean sheets, something that looks in the flickering light like a slab of raw beef, but it is not that, oh, no—it is a petticoat, in my size and probably one of my very own, taken from my drawer, and it is dyed bright red. I am not the only one who sees the thing—I hear titters from some of the nearby beds.
There are many symbols in our culture: The color blue stands for loyalty and truth, the color white for purity. There are flowers that stand for things, too. If you send a girl roses, that means love. If daisies are presented, the girl knows it means friendship. But red petticoats mean only one thing: a girl of low morals ... a slut.
I reach down and touch the thing. It is clumsily dyed and still damp, but not wet. She must have planned this. Well, I can plan, too, Clarissa...
I know I cannot sleep in this bed. I throw the covers back over it and stride toward the door. Amy, who did not see what the bed contained, asks, "Jacky, what...?" Elspeth looks mystified by my sudden departure, too, but I just say, "Never mind. I know I will never be truly welcome here, and I don't care."
I don't know if either of them tried to follow me out, but I do know that they would have expected me to go downstairs to be with Peg, or the girl Katy Deere, who I know has a room down there, too. Water seeks its own level, at least half the girls would say, and I agree with them. To hell with the snotty little bitches.
But I don't go downstairs. Instead, I go up, up to my old room in the attic, where I was put before, when I was first cast out from this company. Beds are kept up there for the servants that some of the girls occasionally bring with them from the country, so the room is not often used. After I get to the top of the stairs, I throw open the door and head for my old bed, and—
I am startled to see the upturned face of the slave girl in the lamplight. She is dressed in her nightshirt and is seated on her bed—my old bed—and she is sewing.
I gasp and then manage to say, "I am so sorry. I did not know you were up here."
"It is all right," she says in a soft voice. I detect a French accent.
"Do you mind if I take that bed over there, next to you? I am not welcome down below right now."
"It is not my place to mind. But yes, you are welcome here. I-I know you for one of the kinder ones."
"Thank you," I say and walk around the end of her bed to the next one in line. I pull back the covers and climb in, but I am so furious that I know sleep will not come to me soon. I stare up at the ceiling.
"Here, I will turn off the lamp," says the girl.
"No, no, please, leave it on. I won't be able to sleep, anyway." I get up on one elbow and I face her. "What is your name and how do you come to be here?"
She does not reply for a moment, her head down, seemingly intent on her sewing. Then she lifts her head and looks off into the darkness of the attic.
"My name is Angelique Marie Therese du Toussaint. I was born on the island of Martinique, in the town of La Trinite. One day, about eight years ago, I was playing on the beach with my little brother, Edouard. My father was out on the sea, in his boat, fishing, and our maman was up at the house, when the pirates came raiding. When she saw what was happening, Maman came running down to the beach to try to save us, but she could not. She was captured, too, along with many others, both black and white." Angelique pauses, then says, "The whites were ransomed. Us, they sold."
I don't say anything to that, I just look at her. I have seen her many times about, and though she is a slave and follows Clarissa's snappish orders, she conducts herself with a quiet dignity.
"But why don't you just run away?" I ask, mystified, sitting up now. "Just run out the door. There's nothing she could do, as slavery's outlawed in Boston. I'll help you. I know people who will take you in until we can get you passage back to Martinique. Why don't you do that?"
She looks down at her hands. "I cannot do that, Mademoiselle. You see, my maman and Edouard are still down at the plantation. I have been told that if I run away, it will go very hard for them. So I do not run away."
"Damn that Clarissa!" I say through clenched teeth. "How can you stand it?"
"Stand it? I stand it because I have to stand it." She turns back to her sewing, but in a moment puts up her needle. "Shall I tell you of my life with Miss Clarissa after we were captured?" she asks, with a wan smile on her face. For the first time she looks directly into my eyes.
I nod.
"Eh, bien. I was about seven years old when we were herded off the ship at Norfolk and put up for sale at the slave pens. Along with about twenty others, we were bought by Clarissa's father, General Howe. He bought me, especially, to be a companion to his little girl, for she had no playmates, the plantation being far out in the country and she having no sisters. We were the same age. The fact that he did not separate us, Maman and Edouard and me, that he bought all three of us, when he did not need my mother or my brother, was considered to be very kind of him. We were allowed to continue as a family."
She pauses and looks off, lost in the memory. "I was bought to be her toy, but we quickly became friends. We were inseparable. We played constantly together. We slept in the same room, and sometimes, when it was stormy and the thunder crashed, in the same bed. We wore the same clothes, ate the same food. And, sometimes, as children will, we fought."
Another pause, then a deep breath. "One day we were arguing over a doll and she slapped my hand and I slapped hers back, something we had done many times before, but this time something was different: Clarissa's mother had come into our room with another servant and both of them saw me do it."
Angelique gets to her feet and goes to the window and looks out into the night.
"Clarissa and I were taken to the Great Hall. The Howe family was assembled and the entire household summoned to witness what was to happen. I was made to kneel before Clarissa and she was forced to slap my face, back and forth, over and over, till finally I fell to the floor, unable to rise. She did not want to do it. She stood over me, crying just like I was."
She stops and comes back to face me. "They were teaching me my place, you see. They were also teaching her."
She sits back down and resumes her sewing. "Things were never the same after that. Things became as you see them now. I was taken out to the slave quarters, and instead of being her friend, I became her slave, something, I then realized, I had always been and had simply forgotten"
She turns off the lamp, and I lie there in the dark, eyes wide open, and steaming. And thinking. And plotting.
Chapter 15
"Higgins, can we afford five dollars for a worthy cause?" It is a Saturday and I'm up for an outing and I've got something in mind. Play my own game, indeed.
"I believe we can, Miss."
"Good. I want to deliver it personally. You'll need your gear. We can go quietly out the back." Higgins's eyebrows go up at this and I say, "Don't worry, we shan't be gone long." I already have my cloak slung over my arm.
"Very well, Miss"
We go down to his room and Higgins takes off his butler jacket, puts his two small pistols into the pockets of his waistcoat, and then puts on his out-on-the-town jacket. He had purchased these handguns before he left London, and fine pieces they are, being of the very latest invention—they use percussion caps and no longer depend upon the clumsy and often misfiring flintlock. He bought them expressly as protection for me, and I appreciate it. He offered to buy one for me, to keep in my purse, but I would have none of it, as I have seen what guns and cannons can do to the bodies of men. I told him that from now on, it's Peaceable Jack, Honest Mariner. I have laid down my sword and shield, down by the riverside, as the song goes, and I will study war no more. Higgins did not express an opinion on that.
Higgins takes my cloak from me and holds it open. I step into it and he folds it around my shoulders. I wrap the mantilla around my face and pull the hood over my head. I am well disguised.
"Good. Now, let's go." Then it's out the back and down toward town. Ah, freedom!
As we walk along, I ask Higgins about something that has puzzled me for a while. "Why do they want me so badly that they plastered these wanted posters all over the place? I'm just one girl. That was just one little ship."
Higgins does not reply but instead tips his hat to a passing man and woman. The man touches his hat and moves on. Then Higgins collects himself and replies, "I've done some thinking on this very thing. It has perplexed me, too, and I've come to the following conclusion: It is not that they care one whit about all that. It is that you know how to speak French, and with an American accent. You have shown yourself to be of an adventurous spirit. You have extricated yourself from many tenuous situations. Need I recite them? No? I thought not. You are not shy about donning various disguises, no matter how scandalous. In short..."
"In short, what?" I can't see what he's getting at.
"In short, you would make the perfect spy."
I gasp at the thought. Higgins continues.
"The new First Lord is very keen on espionage, so I hear. Why, think of it—the Admiralty could put you anywhere—female spies of your knowledge and background would have to be very rare, if they exist at all. So what is the cost of some printed paper in the light of that? Or even the fact that the Navy is putting itself up for some ridicule in this matter by keeping your name in the public eye. The story of a fifteen-year-old girl actually being in command of a Royal Navy ship is being circulated about the fleet, about England itself, making them a laughingstock. To think they are putting up with that to get you back..."
"They ain't gonna get me back," I say, pulling my mantilla tighter about my face. A coach full of men rumbles past and I turn my head away.
"That is to be devoutly hoped, Miss. However, if they do get you back alive, and bend you to their will, well, then it will have been well worth those silly pieces of paper. But suppose you are killed instead of captured and they get back your head in a sack? Well, so be it—what's lost? The cost of printing those posters and the reward they would have to pay to whatever blackguard did you in? At least there would be no more ridicule. But if they get you back alive, ah, then it might well be worth all the cost. They could place you right in Napoléon's own court with very little trouble. You are able to act as both the humble chambermaid and the highborn lady. You could even be the very one serving Boney his snails. Which are very good, by the way."
"I will never be a spy and I will never eat a snail!" I say, rearing back in indignation.
"Never say never. Is that not one of your numerous mottos, Miss? Besides, they could force you to do it. By threatening harm to those you love. The practice of statecraft can be very brutal, especially when they are weighing the fate of one girl and her loved ones against that of millions."
I walk along and fume and don't say anything. Spy, indeed!
A half hour later we turn into Cornhull Street, and there it is, three houses up. A bronze plaque on the side, next to the door, proclaims it to be the home of the Greater New England Society for the Abolition of Slavery. Higgins opens the door for me and we enter and go up to a desk where a well-dressed and handsome young black man is sitting. I am wearing my maroon riding habit, an outfit that I think gives me an air of aristocratic authority.