Howel Davis (Post 11)

*Ok, guys. Because, to your good fortune, I happen to be an “instant gratification” type of chick, I give you Howel Davis (Post 11), and it’s nice and long. However, I absolutely cannot post for at least another week. Unless, of course, you can convince me otherwise… Go ahead, sweet talk me… *

Bridgetown’s harbor was so very different than Nassau’s. Of course, Nassau was the only town I had to compare Bridgetown to, and I’m not sure it was considered “civilization,” even in 1718. Bridgetown was what I had imagined an American colony looked like (not that I’d ever really taken the time to think about it): Cobblestone roads, busy docks, two-story frame houses with large balconies and tile roofs, people – lots of people – who were neither whores nor pirates. I knew that beyond them lay the vast sugar plantations with their numerous slaves. To my eyes, the island of Barbados seemed an unusual backdrop to this scene of 18th century colonial drudgery, what with its shimmering blue waters, lush green foliage, and enormous bougainvillea flowers.

We anchored at dusk amidst the numerous ships in the harbor. Merchants and planters came aboard to inspect the cargo, and the slaves were brought on to the deck. I held my breath, waiting for Davis to emerge, but he didn’t. They were going to keep him in the hold until the very last minute.

I was dying to be off the ship and away from Blaine, but I simply couldn’t leave until I was certain Davis was okay. I watched with horror as the prospective buyers inspected the slaves, telling them to open their mouths and jump. I turned away when two sisters were separated, wailing in anguish, their arms outstretched to touch each other. Blaine brought the whip down across their bare shoulders and back, but they continued to call to each other, to weep profusely. I found myself sobbing quietly into the sleeve of my shirt.

I watched as Sam, tall and dignified, was bought by a wealthy planter and was led away. I squeezed my eyes shut, making a desperate mental prayer for him and the rest of the slaves. I wasn’t sure I believed in God, ever had, but I had to believe that something was controlling this magic, this curse, this surreal existence. Perhaps it could be merciful.

When finally the robust slaves had been sold, I realized I had to make myself scarce or face Blaine again. I took a few things out of my trunk — the white willow bark, the ginger, the silk gown England had given me in Nassau — and bundled them in a sack. Then, when I thought no one was paying attention, I made my way off of the Cadogan.

I had no where to go, of course. I considered lurking around the piers to wait for Davis to be brought off the ship, but beggars and stray dogs and enormous rats convinced me otherwise. I asked an old sailor smoking his pipe where I could find the prison, deciding I would wait there for Davis to be brought. For surely that’s where they were taking him.

The prison, or “gaol,” was a substantial brick building, dark and forbidding, with soldiers guarding the doors. Here, prisoners would await trial in the Law Courts, and convicts would await branding, whipping or hanging — whatever their sentence called for. It was dark now, and I had a plan. I sought refuge at an Anglican church not far from the gaol, where I was given some bread and water. The following morning, I used the water to wash myself as well as could be expected (which, incidentally, wasn’t well at all), and slipped into the fine aquamarine gown. I piled my stringy, unwashed hair on my head and hoped I looked something like a respectable colonial woman. I had a sneaking suspicion I looked more like a prostitute, but it would have to work.

I marched into the loathsome building, aware of the curious eyes that followed me. Upon entering I asked for the bailiff, who wore a long, fine coat of silk and a sour expression on his face. He looked at me without interest, as if he’d seen far more unusual things in his day. I was certain he had.

“Has one Howel Davis been brought in this morning?” I asked.

The bailiff rummaged though his records, making phlegm-rattling snorting sounds through his nose. “Yes, one Davis is here on the charges of piracy. Brought in from the Cadogan.”

“What evidence was provided against him?” I demanded.

The bailiff yawned and then answered, “The accounts of his crew members.”

“Who is the prosecutor? The magistrate? I must have a word with them,” I said urgently.

“You needn’t waste your breath,” the bailiff replied. “The charges will most likely be dismissed for lack of evidence.”

I took a deep breath, relieved. I knew this would happen, but I thought I could possibly expedite the process. “Well, please put me on record as having said that the charges were purely fabricated…” The bailiff dutifully, if grudgingly, took down my words, and filed them away in Davis’ records. He assured me that the situation would be addressed shortly, then seemed relieved to see me leave.

Now all I had to do was wait. And needless to say, it was agonizing. The parish priest, realizing I was a woman, allowed me to stay sheltered at his church for several days, knowing that I was awaiting a man to be released from the gaol. In return, I scrubbed the floors and did some menial tasks to earn my keep, so to speak. Every morning, I went to the prison and asked the annoyed bailiff about Davis. I wouldn’t be surprised if Davis was released only to get me off the bailiff’s back.

Then, on the fourth morning in Barbados, I walked into the prison and the bailiff, seeing me, immediately said, “He’s being released this day, in the afternoon, I’d wager.” I could tell he was thrilled at this development, because it meant I would stop harassing him.

I rushed back to the church to change back into my boy’s clothes — I did not want Davis to know I was a woman. I had thought about it since Davis had been put in the hold of the Cadogan, and I had my reasons: Davis knew Will, but he did not know Sabrina. I wanted to be a familiar face to him, not another shock to his system. Also, I was afraid. I was afraid that should Davis learn I was a woman, I would not be able to follow him in whatever he may pursue, whether it be piracy or anything else. I wanted to have the freedom associated with being a boy.

Finally, I was terrified of rejection. What would I do if Davis’ kindness and playfulness only extended to Will, and not to Sabrina? What if, upon realizing I was a woman, he promptly ditched me? I wasn’t sure I could deal with that — especially after England had done just that.

I waited outside the gaol for hours, the butterflies at work in my stomach. I was so nervous I thought I might vomit. Then, in the late afternoon, Howel Davis emerged, blinking in the sunlight. Actually, the man who emerged was a mere shadow of the Howel Davis I had known aboard the Cadogan. He was gaunt and pale, his clothes filthy and shredded. He had a full beard and dark circles around his eyes. And yet, I knew it was him, the smiling Howel Davis, from the fire in his eyes which, while subdued, was still very much there.

They hadn’t broken him. Thank God.

I watched him cross the street, approaching me, and as he looked in my direction I waved. “Howel,” I said, unsure of what to call him. “Howel Davis.”

He stopped and looked at me, recognition flickering across his face. “Why, ‘allo, Will,” he said. He paused and I looked him over. God, he looked haggard.

“Are you… well?” I asked.

“Ha!” he said without humor. “Been better, that’s for certain. I could use a meal and some drink.”

“Can I come?” I said quickly.

He looked at me carefully, just a glimmer of good humor returning to his eyes. “Aye. I know a place… Just down White’s Alley.”

We walked in silence, and I noticed the gashes in his wrists from the manacles, the cuts on his neck and face, the bruise at his temple. I felt this sudden urge to take care of him, to clean his wounds, feed him, find him a good place to sleep. I couldn’t imagine what he and the slaves had suffered in the hold, and I was afraid to ask.

Davis broke the silence by asking, “So did you find the pirate’s friend, then?”

I shook my head, not looking at him. “No. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

He chuckled. “You an’ me both.”

As in Nassau, there was no shortage of pubs and taverns in Bridgetown. The one Davis led me to was called the “Black Dog Inn.” It was full of people, and I marveled that anything ever got done when people were drinking all day. Maybe it was the only way anything got done to begin with. A woman, who looked like she was wearing a 2009 “beer wench” slutty Halloween costume, gasped and cried out when she saw Davis. She was very attractive — long auburn hair, wide blue eyes, porcelain skin, and a nice figure. She rushed over and threw her arms around his neck, careless of the scandalized onlookers.

“Howel! Howel Davies! Let me look at you!” She held him at arm’s length and clicked her tongue. “What ‘appened to you? You look like ‘ell!”

Davis grinned that beautiful smile of his. “‘Allo, Meg, me love,” he said tiredly. “Was put in the gaol for a little while, is all. Nothing to fret about.”

It was clear from her expression that she didn’t believe him, but she let it go. “You need a hot meal and some good rum. Sit down an‘ I’ll fetch it for you.”

It seemed as though every woman in the place squealed and rushed to Davis the instant they saw him, fretting over him, touching him. Meg stood at his side the whole time, her arms wrapped possessively around one of his. It seemed like an eternity before they let him be and Meg went to get the food she’d promised.

We sat at a table and Davis rubbed his face with his hands. I still felt that urgent need to take care of him, but there was something else, now, too… Jealousy. I tried to focus on Davis and what he’d been through, clearing my mind of the voluptuous beauty who’d done something I’d been dying to do for weeks: wrap my arms around him.

I looked at Davis and asked softly, “Was it so horrible, in the hold?”

He looked at me briefly, then focused on his mangled wrists. “‘Twas worse,” he replied huskily. “Ned Taylor and Jack Blaine are cruel men, worse than even Skinner himself.” And that was it. I wouldn’t press him for the details — I didn’t want to know them. I saw it now, an expression that I’d never seen before on his face. He hadn’t been broken, but he’d been hardened. That sweet wistfulness I had loved so much about him was gone.

“‘Ere we go!” Meg set a platter piled high with food before each of us, along with enormous mugs filled to the brim with rum. She smiled, her hands on her hips. “Now you ‘ad better eat every last crumb,” she said playfully, winking at me, and, as I hoped she would bustle off and do whatever it was she did, she pulled up a chair and plopped down between us.

Great.

I was distracted suddenly by the smell of the food. My stomach growled loudly as I helped myself to the onion pie, roast beef, fish stew, and fried potatoes. Food had never, ever tasted so good. Davis dug in as well, starved as he was. Meg watched us, amused, and once in while reminded Davis to slow down. “You don’t want it coming right back up, now, do you?” she’d say with a gentle smile, touching his arm. I’d pause only long enough to glare at the physical contact between them, then would return back to my meal.

When we finally let up our merciless attack on the food, sitting back in our chairs, sated, Meg asked, “So now, Davies, who be the lad?”

Davis sighed contentedly.  He looked at me now, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. God, I had missed that look. “His name is Will.” He gave Meg an abbreviated version of what happened, and she stared at us, her eyes like saucers.

“Sweet Jesus! Well, those bastards Taylor and Blaine better not come ‘round ‘ere, I’ll say that much!” She turned her attention to me, her eyes scanning my face. I looked down, trying to hide under the brim of my hat. Women were so much more perceptive than men, and her studious gaze made me nervous.

“Well, gentlemen, can I interest you in a bath, a shave, and some beds to sleep in?” There was a saucy note to her voice, a flirty look in her big blue eyes. “Maybe some company to keep ‘em warm?”

I looked up, wondering if I was hearing correctly. Was she suggesting we…? Both Davis and Meg were looking at me. Meg asked, “How old are you, Will?”

“Sixteen,” I replied in barely a whisper.

She looked back at Davis and fluttered her eyelashes. “What do you say, Davies?”

Davis’ eyes never left my face. He grinned. “Aye, a good idea, Meg. What think you, Will?”

I managed to spit out, “I don’t have any money…”

Meg waved her hands. “‘Tis on the house!” she said.

Davis stretched, his arms over his head. “Nothing like the company of a comely lass to make you forget your troubles, eh, lad?”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I was in a pickle. Was this inn also a whorehouse? Nice.

Meg stood. “I’ll arrange things, then,” she said, and ran her fingers along Davis’ jaw. As she sauntered off, I tried to keep my food from coming back up. I wasn’t sure which poor girl was going to be given to me, but she was in for an unpleasant surprise. As for Howel Davis… I was fairly certain Meg would see to him herself.

Oh, no. Over my dead body.

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