Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  Rough hands seized her.

  Amenirdis tried to pull away from those grasping fingers, and as she did so, she gasped sharply and awoke. She lay there for a moment, her heart hammering, fighting to breathe. It was just a dream, she thought. You dreamed about when you were captured. It was very real, but it’s in the past. Calm down.…

  She, Tarek, and Piye had been captured by slavers on that terrible day. She’d soon learned that bands of slavers roamed the interior of the continent, searching for prey. They could be either black men or white men, but they were alike; they all carried whips and iron rods, either short or long, that they called “muskets” or “pistols.” These weapons were the things that had caused the thunder-crack noises, these deadly guns that could slay from a distance. The white men had brought these weapons to Africa, but black men had been quick to adopt them and use them to deal death. White or black, slavers cared only for money; she had learned that, too.

  The princess’s racing heartbeat slowed, as the nightmare lost its grip on her. She heard rain spattering on the roof. The rainy season had started a bit early this year. Opening her eyes, she could just make out the outlines of her surroundings—the line of pallets on the dirt floor, each holding a sleeping woman. The women’s slave dormitory; yes, she was certainly safe.

  Her lips curved in a mirthless grin. Safe from capture, at least. Nobody needed to capture her, because she had already been captured. She was here, on this big farm outside of Calabar, and she was no longer a princess—instead, she was a slave. She had lost everything, even her name. No longer did she bear the proud name of a forbear who had been queen of Kush. She’d abandoned her real name, lest someone recognize it and ask about her origin.

  These days, she was known as Ayisha.

  It had been five months since Ayisha and the remnants of the Zerzuran caravan had been marched back to Calabar, tethered to one another like beasts of burden by a wooden and leather harness called a coffle.

  By the time they’d arrived in Calabar, where they had been sold, their band had been reduced to less than half of the Zerzurans who had survived the initial attack. Ayisha had watched, anguished, as her maids, then two priests, then half the remaining guardsmen had perished during that journey from heat, wounds, starvation, or sickness. As the days went by, she wondered that she had not died herself…and she also found herself envying those who did.

  In Calabar, most of the remaining survivors had been sold to slavers who had promptly loaded their new acquisitions into the holds of ships and sailed west. Only Piye, Tarek, and Ayisha were purchased by owners who kept them on African soil.

  She had no idea where Piye’s owner had taken him, but she knew where Tarek was. Both of them had been purchased by the same man, an Englishman named Dalton. Master Dalton owned a farm outside Calabar, where he grew food to supply the slave ships. Tarek toiled all day in the fields, growing yams, millet, sorghum, and rice. And she, Ayisha, was the farm’s weaver and seamstress. She spent her days in the weaving and sewing room, making fabric and sewing clothing. At first she had made only simple homespun garments for the field hands, but as her expertise became evident, she was trusted to sew clothing for first the house slaves, then her English master and mistress and their children.

  These days, even Mistress’s wealthy friends occasionally brought her bolts of beautiful fabrics and she created dresses for them, modeled on drawings they showed her from books and sketches. Ayisha had a small but growing cache of coins these women had given her as tips, for doing good work. “She’s so ugly one can hardly stand to look at her,” one woman had remarked, as her friend modeled her new afternoon gown, “but I swan, the creature can sew a beautiful gown!”

  Ayisha had not, of course, betrayed that she had understood the English. On the march to Calabar, she’d picked up a working knowledge of Yoruba, the language of the local tribes who now controlled the slave-hunting ventures. And once she’d reached the farm, she’d learned the common language spoken by the slaves, which was called pidgin. It was a mixture of several native tongues, with some foreign words thrown in for good measure. But except for obeying commands given her in pidgin, and replying in monosyllables, she was careful to keep her mouth shut. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  Once she’d reached the farm, where her new master, Roger Dalton, his wife, Mistress Dalton, their children, many of the house servants, and the overseers spoke English, she’d begun learning that language. She had always been good with languages. It was part of her, just as she was good with sewing, weaving, anything to do with fabric. It was all part of the gift the gods had given her at birth, just as her ability to work magic was. She’d had the most ability of anyone in her family, far more than her father or brother.

  For all the good it did her. This far from the Heart of Zerzura, her power was limited. She could do a few things, especially where fabrics were concerned, but she was bitterly aware that she lacked the power to escape to freedom.

  At least she still had her small tie to the Heart, and Zerzura. No one had given the woven scrap she wore around her wrist even a glance. It was barely more than a rag, with a faint design picked out by a few embroidered threads.

  Ayisha turned over on her pallet, pulling the shawl up over her shoulder. She never let it out of her grasp, not even for a moment. All that stood between her and abuse from the male world was the illusion of her ugliness, so she clung to it fiercely.

  She lay there, closing her eyes, seeking sleep, but it eluded her. Instead she found herself envisioning her mother’s face. By now her mother had probably given her up for dead. And, in a way, her daughter Amenirdis, Princess of Zerzura, was dead.

  Tears filled her eyes, but Ayisha fiercely blinked them back. She had not cried since that terrible march across Africa, yoked into a coffle with her sick and, at times, dying countrymen. Crying solved nothing. What she had to do was figure out some way to escape.

  She rolled over again, onto her back, and stared up into the darkness. Escape meant a ship. They couldn’t walk across water.

  If more and more of the white women came to her, bringing her pictures of dresses, bringing her fabrics she’d never encountered before, but were beautiful beyond belief—silks, satins, velvets—and she sewed well for them, they would continue to give her coins. Every day her knowledge of English grew. When she was sure she was entirely alone, and the sound of her loom clacking masked any noise she made, Ayisha practiced speaking English, whispering, first words, then sentences. She knew that being able to communicate would be essential to gaining passage aboard a ship.

  Even now, Mistress Dalton was beginning to trust her, allowing her to walk to town sometimes on little errands, especially those connected with her sewing. During these trips, Ayisha confined herself to pointing, gestures, and a few words of pidgin. She didn’t want anyone to know she could speak well. She always kept her ears open for any word of Piye, but so far she had not been able to discover where he had been taken.

  Every time she walked past the docks, Aiyisha gazed hungrily at the ships, and she planned. She would save her coins. And when she calculated that she had enough of them, she would buy food and supplies for their journey. Then she and Tarek would leave the farm in the dead of night, and stow away aboard a westbound vessel. Not a slave ship, though. Spell-weaving required concentration, and she would not be able to concentrate in the presence of so many doomed people—her own people, people of Africa, people with dark skins.

  After the ship set sail, the closer it came to the island of Kerma, the stronger her power would become. If she were within a day’s sail of her homeland, Ayisha was confident she could weave a spell that would cause the entire crew to fall into deep sleep. Then she and Tarek would lower a boat and take their chances on the open sea. If Apedemak and the other gods favored her, there would be no storms to swamp their boat, and they would reach their illusion-cloaked homeland. The mists shrouding the island would part for her, because that was part of her bracelet’s power.


  And then…then they would be home. Home! The thought of it made tears prickle again.

  She would never know the fate of her father, or her brother, but at least she would be there to comfort her mother. Amenirdis had no desire to rule Kerma, but if she was the only heir left, she would do her duty, and become queen upon her mother’s death.

  The first thing she would do when she was queen, she vowed, lying sleepless in the darkness, listening to the sound of the rain spattering on the roof and the breathing of her fellow slave women, would be to free Kerma’s slaves.

  * * *

  Ayisha was able to implement her plans over the next few months. Two months into the rainy season, she could speak entire sentences in English. When she sewed in the main house, her sewing room was next door to the schoolroom. She listened to the children as they did their lessons and read aloud. Sometimes she dared to mouth what they were saying, the sound she made barely above a breath. On days when their lessons ended before her sewing project did, she would hurry to finish her work, then lay down the finished project and softly tiptoe next door to the schoolroom. Once there, she listened for approaching footsteps while she studied the pictures on the wall. Once or twice she dared to open the books and gaze at the pictures they held.

  Best of all, she liked the globe that stood on the schoolmaster’s desk. It fascinated her. If this was a true depiction of the world, then Apedemak’s priests were correct; the world was round, and it circled the sun.

  Ayisha would spin the tan globe slowly, trailing her fingers over its surface. After much study, she identified Africa, because she was able to trace the path of the Nile. She even located the Third Cataract, and knew that the ancient site of ruined, deserted Kerma lay just south of it.

  From there, tracing her finger west, and then out onto the sea, she found islands not far west of the northern bulge of West Africa. There were two groups of them. And, she knew, between those clusters of known islands lay her illusion-cloaked homeland.

  One day, after she had finished weaving a beautiful blanket for a newborn on its presentation day, she sat sewing in the big house, her needle flashing silver in the sunlight streaming through the west-facing window. Glancing up at the sound of footsteps, she saw Master Dalton, accompanied by a short, slight man wearing a black hat, coat, and black gloves. For the briefest second, their gazes touched.

  Ayisha stabbed herself with her needle. Quickly, before her blood could touch the silk, she pulled her finger away and sucked it hastily, keeping her eyes down. Despite the heat, she felt chilled to the bone from the touch of the newcomer’s eyes. She had seen that look in a man’s eyes before, during their march to Calabar. The head slaver was a black man who insisted on being called “Duke” to his face, though she’d learned that his real name was Ancona Wren-John. Duke had had eyes like that.

  She was aware, peripherally, of the man glancing at Master Dalton incredulously. “I see you were not exaggerating when you called her ugly, sir. A face to curdle fresh milk, Master Dalton.” His accent was strange, unlike any Ayisha had heard before, and she had some trouble understanding him. She listened intently as she began sewing again.

  “’Tis true, Ayisha’s looks will never bring her the attention of a man,” Master Dalton said. “But she’s a good worker. Weaves a fine cloth, sews a fine seam. Gives no trouble.”

  “And you say you bought her from Ancona Wren-John, from the coffle he brought in the last of January? The same coffle with the old holy man and the big eunuch?”

  “That was the one,” Master said. “I always go among the slaves, and speak to those I consider buying. I can make myself understood in Yoruba. M’wife told me she needed a weaver and a seamstress, and I asked the women if any of them could weave or sew. This one raised her hand. I took her across the street before the sale, to the house of a friend, and showed her a loom, told her to weave. And weave she could. So I bought her. Because of her looks, she came cheap. It was a pleasant surprise to discover she could also sew.”

  “She speaks no English?”

  “No. Only a few words of Yoruba and of course a bit of the pidgin the slaves here in Calabar use. Yes, no, come here, that kind of thing. I don’t think she’s actually lack-witted. But my wife has to speak to her very simply. At first I wondered if she was mute, but she’s not. But she hardly ever speaks.”

  “My employer is in need of a good weaver and seamstress for his household,” the newcomer said. “How much?”

  Master Dalton shook his head. “I don’t want to sell Ayisha. She’s too good at her craft.”

  Hearing this, it was all Ayisha could do not to visibly sag in relief. The man with the black gloves frightened her. She didn’t know why, but she was convinced that whatever he wanted her for, it wasn’t her ability as a seamstress or weaver.

  She stitched faster, and moments later, heard them leave.

  That night, she dreamed of the day that Pennut had been unable to rise from the ground. Ayisha, weakened herself, had been trying to help her stand, when “Duke” had come striding over. With a swift shove, he’d thrust the princess away from her maid, and then she’d heard the thunder-crack of his pistol. Pennut had sagged to the ground, a hole between her wide-open eyes. Ayisha had had this dream before. In the dream, as she had done in life, she had raised her gaze to the slaver, incredulous that he could wipe out a human life as though Pennut had been nothing more than a beast.

  But this time, when she looked up at Ancona, his face was the face of the visitor with the black gloves. Ayisha awoke, sweating and trembling. She was so terrified of falling asleep and dreaming again of him that she lay there, pinching the inside of her elbow until dawn brightened the eastern sky, and it was time to rise and begin work.

  Not long before noon, Mistress Dalton came to the weaving room in the slave quarters to find her. Two men accompanied the Englishwoman. Ayisha glanced at them covertly. One of them was the man with the black gloves. She had to exert every bit of control not to let her fear show.

  The other man was different. She realized quickly that he was a wealthy English gentleman. One glance at the quality of his clothing, the fabric, the tailoring, told her that. He was also short.

  Ayisha puzzled over his age. His features were smooth, unlined, but his hair was as white as milk, and worn in two large curls on either side of his face.

  As they stood there, staring at her, Ayisha continued to weave, her loom clacking rhythmically. She didn’t make eye contact with the newcomers, but watched them covertly.

  Mistress indicated Ayisha, then bobbed a curtsey as she addressed her guests. “Here she is, sir. The weaver you asked to see. Her name is Ayisha.” Raising her voice, she called, “Ayisha!”

  Ayisha stopped weaving and looked up, unsure whether to rise. “Mistress?” she asked, speaking pidgin.

  “Master has sold you, Ayisha,” her mistress said. “I’m sorry to see you go, but it can’t be helped. Go and gather your things, then come back here immediately. Don’t dawdle.”

  Ayisha rose, feeling her heart leap with fear. She bobbed a quick curtsey, nodding.

  Quickly, she headed for the door. What should I do? I want to run, but what good would that do? I’d be caught before I’d gone a mile. The trackers have dogs.…

  As she neared the doorway, head down, Mistress Dalton and the black-gloved man stepped back so she could leave. But the white-haired man suddenly moved, stepping in front of her, barring her exit.

  “Hallo, Ayisha,” he said, in English. “My name is Cutler Beckett, and I am your new master. I can’t wait till we can have a nice, long talk.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Wicked Wench

  JACK SPARROW HAD NEVER THOUGHT it would happen to him. All his life, he’d heard people speak of love—mostly men, of course, since he’d spent the majority of his life at sea, and there were few women who chose that life. Life on the sea was a male-dominated occupation, whether the sailors were pirates or seamen aboard a merchant ship or the crew of a nava
l vessel. There were the rare—and refreshing—exceptions, of course, such as Esmeralda, lovely Esmeralda.…

  Men were self-conscious about referring to love. They were often given to enthused bragging regarding their carnal adventures and conquests, but when they referred to love, it was usually in a hushed whisper, or a mumble. Sometimes an awed murmur, if the poor chap was embarrassingly besotted.

  Jack wanted to shout his adoration aloud—and he would have, too, if he hadn’t had a certain dignity to maintain. But ever since that day when he’d seen her, he’d thought of her with…love. No other word fit.

  She was lovely, yes, of course. But there was more to it than that. She moved with authority, as well as beauty. There was a wildness, a sense of freedom and strength about her that captivated his heart, his soul. He wanted her for his own. When he’d finally gotten close to her, could touch her, she’d responded to his touch, he fancied, the way she had never responded to another man’s.

  Love, yes; there was no other word for the way he felt about her. At night he even dreamed about her, about how it felt to guide her as she moved, feeling her respond to his orders. Her intoxicating scent—tar and salt and honest sweat. The sounds she made—the wind filling her ivory sails, the creak of her sheets, the slap of the waves against her red-gold bow as she clove the sea. She was beautiful, a work of art with graceful, gilded lilies and scrollwork emblazoned on her bow and stern, and gilded railings on her gunwales. A golden dream of a vessel…and she was all his to command. The Wicked Wench was her name, and Jack Sparrow, at long last, knew what it was to be in love.