by Mark Souza
The Comfort Shack
Mark Souza
Copyright 2011 by Mark Souza
Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Story
The Comfort Shack Tidbits
About the Author
Upcoming Titles
Connect With Me Online
Second Honeymoon Excerpt
The Comfort Shack
By Mark Souza
The mini-van pulled to a stop in the nearly empty parking lot. Its headlights lit a sign mounted to a rustic stone rampart. Welcome to Historic Fort Cavendish. A family of four crawled out, stiff and weary. They unloaded the van and followed a concrete walk through a set of gates dragging their roller-bags.
“Mom, why can't we stay in a real hotel?” the oldest daughter complained.
“Shut up, Jenny. We're here now and this place has meaning to your father.”
Inwardly, Leanne Brown didn't want to spend a cold night in a drafty pre-Revolutionary-War fort any more than her daughter. But the decision had been made. Her husband, Stu, had ancestors who had lived there during the eighteenth century. To him this was a romantic adventure, a reconnecting with his past. Letting Jenny's mutiny go unchecked would only invite a spat. She clenched her teeth and hauled her bag dutifully, bringing up the rear like a ramrod driving reluctant cattle down the trail.
Light spilled from the office windows casting intersecting crescents of light onto the walk. Panes of wavy glass flecked with bubbles bracketed a heavy door crudely fashioned from hand-hewn timber. Inside, functionality trumped historical accuracy. Overhead fluorescents cast a pallid glow over a heavy wooden reception desk fitted with a computer. The office walls had been finished with sheetrock and painted a cheery yellow.
Behind the counter, a woman looked up from her terminal screen when the door opened. She was young and pretty, and had a ready smile. Hair black and shiny as a starling’s eye flowed over her shoulders down to her waist, boldly framing a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and bronze skin.
“Hi, you must be the Brown family. I’m Ellie, welcome to historic Fort Cavendish. We’ve been expecting you.”
Stu gawked at the girl with a stupid grin on his face. Leanne shot a quick elbow to his ribs to bring him back to Earth.
“Uh, yes, that’s us,” Leanne said.
“We have you in the Commandant’s Cottage. After you’ve settled in, would you like the tour?”
“Sure,” Stu said.
The girls rolled their eyes. They remained silent though their posture sagged like snow burdened willows. Under other circumstances Leanne would have taken them to task, but it was late, everyone was tired, and it was enough that they didn’t complain.
The receptionist picked up on their reluctance. “I promise to make it fun,” she said. “Let me show you to your cottage.”
She led the Browns out the door and across the courtyard on a lit cobbled path. Suitcase wheels clattered as they bounced over the joints in the walkway and no one spoke. A stone structure jutted from the interior bulwark. Ellie held the door while the Browns shuffled inside.
The Commandant’s Cottage was better accommodation than Leanne expected. A wood fire burned in the hearth of a massive river-rock fireplace. Oil lamps lit the space. The front room had an upholstered sofa and two leather club chairs, antiques, though not old enough to be authentic to the fort by a long stretch. A short hallway led to a bathroom with a tub-shower combination and modern plumbing. Leanne was glad to see some concessions had been made in the name of guest comfort.
On either side of the hall were bedrooms. The one on the right was furnished with a pair of twin beds and an antique armoire. The girls shuffled in and chose beds without a fight. The room to the left was nearly identical in size, and furnished with a queen-size bed. The mattress was smaller than Leanne was used to, but for one night, it would do.
“I’ll give you a few minutes to get settled and we’ll start the tour,” Ellie said. She closed the door and left them. The Browns unpacked.
Leanne answered the light rap at the door fifteen minutes later. Ellie stood on the stoop holding a set of brass pans fastened to long wooden handles. She set them down next to the fireplace, folded back the lid on one, scooped up embers from the hearth, and clapped the lid shut.
“In the old days, people used these to warm their beds before they climbed in. Your sheets will be nice and toasty by the time we get back.” After placing the bed warmers, Ellie joined the Brown’s in the main room.
“Are we ready?”
The girls looked less than excited. Leanne didn’t feel much enthusiasm either and tried to come up with a graceful way to beg off. It had been a long drive, the hour was getting late, and the cottage was warm.
“Who wants to hear about the slaughter of 1759?” Ellie said.
Lisa shot a hand in the air and looked over at her older sister who was trying to decide. Slowly, Jenny’s arm crept above her head. Ellie smiled.
“All right, the tour starts now. Fort Cavendish was built in 1750 by the British to protect Cavendish Bay and the towns nearby from French marauders, and Indian attack. Cavendish Bay was a major seaport at the time. Ships left for England heavy with tobacco, furs and cotton. They returned with supplies like cloth, tea, and gunpowder.
“This cottage was the home of Commander Jonathon Smythe. The only record we have of what happened is from the diary of his wife, Rebecca. The story of the slaughter centers around a prostitute. Is that going to be okay Mrs. Brown?”
The girls, Jenny fifteen, and Lisa thirteen, smirked with their gaze glued to their mother. Maybe they thought she’d squirm at the word or forbid them to hear the story.
“It’s no problem. They’re old enough to know what the word means,” Leanne said.
“I’m related to Commander Smythe on my mother’s side,” Stu blurted. “He’s my great, great, great, grandfather nine generations back.”
The girls looked embarrassed and a little peeved. Initially opposed to the tour, they were now eager to get started and their father was slowing things down. Ellie’s story had two elements they were keen to hear; slaughter and prostitution. And they had their mother’s permission. Leanne was peeved too, but for different reasons.
Ellie smiled graciously. “Wow, what are the odds? A blood relative of Commander Smythe? That doesn’t happen every day. Welcome home, I guess.”
Stu grinned like a smitten schoolboy. Leanne glared. She muttered under her breath, “She’s half your age, moron.” Stu’s eyes slid toward his wife and his expression soured. Her words had hit their target.
“Where did I leave off?” Ellie asked.
“Prostitutes,” Lisa chirped. She looked over at her mother with fretful eyes and a wide grin exposing her braces, to see if she was in Dutch.
“That's right,” Ellie said. “Let's head outside.”
Ellie pointed out the various buildings scattered inside the fort and explained how the largest structure at the center, the barracks, housed the enlisted men. The cottages along the walls were assigned to officers and their families on the basis of rank. With one exception. Ellie pointed out a small building next to the Commandant’s Cottage.
“That cottage held prostitutes. The army recognized that since the enlisted men
were mostly single and weren’t permitted to have anyone live with them, having ready access to prostitutes might relieve tensions before they came to a head.
“It was a cold winter day in 1759 at about this time of year. The days were short and the nights long. A new girl was brought in, a Native American girl named Libby, and that’s when the trouble began...”
Rebecca Smythe watched the wagon pass through the gates. The buckboard carried supplies up from the harbor. She scaled the wall after hearing the sentry's call of ‘ship ahoy’ to watch the unloading through a spyglass. The Harbinger set anchor late in the afternoon and wagons off-loaded her cargo, coming and going well into the evening. Rebecca had ordered a hand mirror months earlier and met each wagon as it arrived. Her initial excitement festered into simmering frustration as load after load arrived with no sign of her mirror.
As the wagon drew nearer, she noticed it carried a passenger, a woman. A woman arriving alone meant one thing, a new whore for the Comfort Shack - as the men called it. This one was different. She was an Indian. There had never been an Indian whore at Fort Cavendish. And she was young and pretty. Not just pretty, she was beautiful. Unlike the other prostitutes, she wasn’t plump, pimple faced, lazy-eyed, or missing teeth. Men scrambled off the wall and hustled across the parade ground to meet the wagon with stupid, leering grins.
“Flies to rotted meat,” Rebecca muttered.
The wagon slowed to a stop in front of the supply house. The driver tipped his hat and offered Rebecca a smile.
“Hello again, Mrs. Smythe.”
She dipped her head in greeting. “You know why I’m here.”
“Yes ma’am and I have it for you.”
Rebecca placed a hand over her chest and let out a relieved sigh. The hours of fruitless waiting had seemed longer than the weeks and months that had come before. But the waiting was finally over.
Soldiers arrived at the wagon and crowded around the sideboard. They jostled for position to be the one to help down the new girl. They behaved like idiots. If her husband hadn’t been away in town, Rebecca felt sure he would have had them put in stocks or had them whipped. Another group of men arrived to unload the wagon.
“May I have it?” Rebecca asked. The driver reached under his seat and pulled out a parcel wrapped in cloth and bound with string. She could tell from the shape it was her mirror. The driver handed it down as a soldier swung the girl off the seat. Rebecca watched in horror as the girl’s leg clipped the mirror and it tumbled from the driver’s hand. Time seemed to slow. It felt to Rebecca as though she’d stepped outside her body and unable to react. The mirror ricocheted off the sideboard and spun like a windmill till it hit the cobblestones. When she came to her senses she was still screaming the word, “No.”
The soldiers backed away. Some returned to their posts. The new girl looked scared and chewed on her lower lip. She bent down, picked up the mirror and timidly offered it to Rebecca. Rebecca snatched it away and snapped the string with a jerk of her fingers. She peeled off the cloth and threw it to the ground. The silver handle was cold in her hand. Intricate filigree decorated the back. She turned it over. A crack extended diagonally across the glass. The girl shifted her gaze from the mirror to Rebecca, a smug grin on her face.
Rebecca's neck tensed with rage, her words came out in a raspy hiss, “It’s ruined, ruined.” Her tone scattered the remaining soldiers.
“I will pay for a new one,” the girl said.
“What is your name?”
“I will pay.”
“Of course you will. What is your name?” Rebecca demanded.
“Libby.”
“Your full name.”
The team of horses, whose ears pricked up when the commotion started, now folded them back as if checking for a safe path to retreat.
“Libby, ma’am.”
“Don’t you have a proper name?”
“My name is Libenasequa. White people call me Libby because they have trouble pronouncing it.”
“Do you know how long I waited for that mirror?”
“No ma’am.”
“Four months. I ordered it in September and it’s only just arrived. Can you replace my time?”
“No ma’am.”
“So what do you have to say for yourself?”
“I am terribly sorry. I didn’t mean any harm. A beautiful woman with golden hair such as you has no need for reassurance from a mirror.” The girl spoke softly, her gaze fixed on the ground. From her posture, she looked to be an innocent begging for sympathy. But it was all for show. She was no more remorseful than a cat atop a mouse. Rebecca wanted to slap her.
“Be quiet. I don’t want to hear your self-serving blather. The mirror cost two pounds. Pay me.”
“But I have no money yet.”
“You don’t? Then why did you offer to pay?”
“I will pay you as soon as I can. I promise.”
“The promise of a whore. Now I feel better.” Rebecca turned away from the girl and dug through her purse. She pulled out two silver coins and handed them to the driver. “Place another order with the captain the moment you return to the ship.” The driver nodded.
Rebecca held the mirror to her face. The crack split her brow to cheek, one half angled higher than the other. The effect was grotesque. She squeezed the silver handle until the blood left her hand and the mirror quivered.
“I’ll be waiting for my money,” she said. She lowered the mirror and stormed off for home.
The sitting room window of the Commandant’s Cottage faced the Comfort Shack. Rebecca had no choice but to observe what happened there. Fights had become commonplace since the Indian girl arrived. Libby would take the first half dozen or so from the line and turn away the rest. Rather than bedding down with one of the other girls, most soldiers went back to the barracks and held onto their money hoping to be one of the lucky ones the next day. Jonathan threatened to close down the Comfort Shack if the men couldn’t behave, but confided to Rebecca that he didn’t dare as morale would grow infinitely worse if he did.
The Indian whore left two quid on Rebecca’s doorstep the morning after her first full night on the job. The sight of the coins started Rebecca's blood boiling again. It was a reminder she’d not have her mirror until spring.
Libby had made herself invisible, though the signs of her presence were unmistakable. A line of men congregated in front of the Comfort Shack as soon as the sun set. Libby refused to work during the day and slept until nightfall.
A plague hit the fort that week. Rebecca hadn’t seen the bodies; however her husband, Jonathon, spoke of it. He had a gift for description that made her feel she had been beside him at the time. Two men had died. The illness struck quickly. Men who seemed healthy the day before, were found dead the next morning, one in the parade ground, the other at his posts on the wall. Dr. Harker had seen nothing like it. He assumed it was an unknown disease of the New World. The corpses had puncture wounds on their throats, but Harker assured they were not significant enough to cause death. In fact, the wounds didn’t appear to have bled at all. The doctor surmised the men were already dead when the punctures were inflicted, and were likely caused by some sort of nocturnal animal.
One evening, Rebecca sat in her rocker knitting a sweater. A flash of red at the door of the Comfort Shack caught her attention. If it had been the dingy jacket of an enlisted man, she wouldn’t have noticed. But the color was vibrant and clean, it screamed out like a signal fire. It was the coat of an officer.
She didn’t sit at the window to spy. In the afternoon, the location offered the best light for her knitting. The man appeared wary and nervous in the jaundiced glow of the porch lantern. It was while he checked to see if anyone was watching that Rebecca saw his face. It was Lieutenant Bennett, Beatrice Bennett’s husband, stepping inside. She was so distracted waiting for Bennett to leave, that she had to back out two rows of ruined stitches. Half an hour later, the door cracked open. After a moment’s hesitation, the lieutenant sau
ntered out making a beeline for his cottage as if nothing had happened.
The weight of Bennett’s secret pressed down on Rebecca like a platen. Should she tell Beatrice? Would the woman ever speak to her again if she did? Would she even be believed? She hated being put in this awkward predicament. It was all the Indian’s fault. Trouble had followed her from the very day she’d arrived.
Rebecca eventually told Margaret Adams, the Quartermaster’s wife. If she hadn’t confide in someone she would have burst from the strain, and Margaret could keep a secret. Within a week, the only wife in the fort who didn’t know was Beatrice Bennett. Afterward, things went oddly quiet when Beatrice was around.
Rebecca felt badly at first, but it did bring the rest of the wives closer than ever. Rebecca warned the others of everything that had happened since the Indian girl arrived. They listened, but paid no heed. Millicent Potter thought the real issue was Beatrice’s decision to sleep in separate beds. Harriet Harker had heard from her husband that three more men had died of New World plague, for a total of seven.
During the morning, temperatures plummeted. Snow fell, first as sparkling dust, then later in large flakes that looked like goose down falling from the sky. By evening it was calf-high, and still men stacked up in line in front of the Comfort Shack. They actually came running, trying to beat each other for the first places in the queue.
Rebecca didn’t even pretend at her knitting as she rocked in her chair. She left the lantern unlit while she watched, as it made it easier to see outside from the darkened room. The men were taken inside in turn. That night’s number was five. The rest were dismissed two hours later, disappointed. Shortly after the line dispersed, a figure slipped from the shadows onto the porch of the Comfort Shack, and rapped lightly on the door. It was Captain Potter, Millicent’s husband. Rebecca noted the russet-skinned hand that slipped out from the open door, curled around Potter’s neck, and drew him inside. There was no mistaking who he was there to see.