Annalea, Princess of Nemusmar
~~
I awoke late that same day to discover the sisters inventorying me particulars. If they were bent on fondling me possessions, I'd no desire to thwart their curiosity. I gave them a good, long, hard looksee. Their curiosity finally exhausted, the sisters prepared some victuals and we supped in the familiar comfort of their bed.
As we et, we gabbed: mostly a light-hearted chiding of each by the others as we reminisced the last few hours' recreation. And there was a lot of garbled nonsense spaken that made no sense to me. To tell you, with sisters as close as those two were, one would often finish speaking for the other. And nearly as oft' as not, one would start a phrase, then stop, mid-thought. But the other would also leave it incomplete. 'Twas as if both knew the destination, and what lie at the end–so why continue the journey? Being the odd third to this matched set, made the conversation both amusing and confusing.
With no particular interest, beyond contributing to the conversation, I asked the sisters about the outcome of the "trial." Much as I'd presumed, there was a ritual hazing of the prisoners–intended to scare some life into them. But this batch did not scare readily, Sarah noted. The high jinks and pranks me mates attempted fell largely on muted, expressionless faces, she told me. Realizing this, the captain cut short that part of the process and had the prisoners separated and prepared for interrogation.
Cynthia believed, at that point, that the brigands all still considered their lot was death. With nothing to gain–and nothing more to lose–those that spake, did so frankly. As not to belabour over the details, the outcome was that a full dozen lads was made–and accepted–the "offer;" and the remainder were despatched to the devil, by way of the gallows.
"Well then, things went just as I suspected," I said to the sisters, with the justifiable arrogance of a man who knows all. (And knows that he knows all. And is careless enough to display it.)
Sarah piped up, "Then tell us what you'd forecast for the Spaniards, Prophet Crockett."
"Spaniards!" I exclaimed, being most completely blind-sided. "What bleeding Spaniards?"
"Methinks we are visited by a false prophet, Sister," Cynthia remarked sarcastically.
"Aye, Brother Crockett is no soothsayer," returned Sarah.
"Methinks friend Crockett looks the fool," Cynthia said completing their verbal admonishment of me.
Thus reduced to me natural state of ignorance, I had to acquire the countenance of the goat, and unassumedly–sheepishly–inquire of the all knowing wisdom of the sisters, that they might share their knowledge with me. They had me! I hated that. And I would normally have bolted their quarters in a demonstration of grand indignation. But me quick sense saved me from this. Did I truly want to walk out about the compound displaying me ignorance to all I would meet?
I moved to regain some self-respect (while retaining me self-control, with great difficulty). "Ah, me dears, with all we've shared–and with all the things I've done for you–this is how you'd use me? Why I've always thought of you as me own sisters–sort of. And have I not treated you so?"
"You'd do thusly unto your own sisters?" Sarah mocked me. "You are a fool and a lecherous old sod."
"And an outstanding example of both," added Cynthia, completing her sister's deposition on me character.
Not to let go–nor submit to the tyranny of the petticoat–I asserted, "Any activity or conduct on me part which gives offense shall be forthwith forsworn. There shall be nothing in me conduct with you as would impugn the character of a lady."
This brought about the expected result: some hemming and hawing on the part of the sisters, followed by their retraction of all libelous innuendo, their reaffirmation of the little pleasures they receive from me hands, and–most importantly-the restoration of me position of authority in these relations. Now I could control the conversation and interrogate them in a manner necessary to reveal what I wanted to know.
So, what of these Spaniards? The bastards were beginning to take on mythical status in me thoughts. Since first I'd spied that Spanish galleon out to sea, closing on Nemusmar, they'd seemingly infested me brain. For every time I believed I'd seen their demise, at the hands of the brigands or me own mates, still other Spaniards would crop up. Most like some vile insect that continues to spew progeny even beyond death!
The sisters confirmed there were yet two Spaniards alive: cast in amongst the brigand prisoners. To spare them from possible revenge at the hands of the brigands, and to keep them whole until the trial, the captain had them separated out and locked together in the larder. 'Twas quite late–according to the sisters–after the brigands had been sorted out and dispensed with, that the two Spaniards were brung before the captain for judgement.
In me absence, Higgins had supplied their defense. At the appropriate moment, he stated there was no defense for what they were, and he rested. A chorus of, "Guilty!" shouted by those assembled, anticipated the captain's, "How say you?" Leaving him only to say, "So say you," and pronounce sentence.
Oh the crime–the charges? That they were Spanish military operating in waters that were doubtless the proprietary concern of the British majesty (we had some loyalty, sort of) was sufficient cause to stretch their necks from trunk to treetop. And so they were sentenced to be executed, immediately. The Spanish was spake to inform them their lot. Sarah reported they gave some response of astonishment. But no one paid heed and no one translated their words.
Only the angry words of the surviving brigands–now enlisted in our community–brought the proceedings to a halt. They demanded that these accursed Spaniards not be allowed the privilege of departing this world by way of the same gallows from which their former comrades had so recently been sent to meet their maker. They argued that those comrades–even the most treacherous and most cowardly amongst them–were, after all, "loyal British subjects." They said they would not allow this vile Catholic scum to besmirch the "sanctity" of their mates' "passing." (They were bloody hung!)
Apparently, this was too much for the captain to reason out and put words to. I can imagine him wondering if he'd hung the right men–or enough of them.
In any event, as he cast about for a suitable substitute of the gallows, Higgins shouted out, "Just shoot the bastards!"
To this the chorus replied, "Aye, shoot the bastards!"
Now this seemed a reasonable solution, to the captain–and by mandate, no less. He called for firearms to be brought out and prepared and for the condemned to be marched to the cove, beyond the "tomb." There they would be weighted from ankles to neck in heavy irons, stood with their backs to the sea, despatched by a single volley, and their carcasses dragged out to deep waters. The encumbrance of chains would pull their unholy remains to the sea floor, to be devoured by the denizens that occupy that dark and morbid realm. This was explained to the Spaniards, in their tongue.
Cynthia said she noted, and admired, how the Spaniards marched out of that settlement without a word of protest, and with their heads held high. As if holding themselves to be men of honour, at the mercy of barbarians. She described the odd procession to the sea as part carnival, part funeral march. Most of our lot were jubilant: skipping along, frolicking–letting out hoots and calls intended to jar, mock or intimidate the Spaniards. Our new recruits, however, maintained a somber demeanour: acting the part of military guard. And the two that were doomed remained stoic.
Sarah considered all this mostly a tragedy, and partly a waste. I understood her feelings. The women, as a rule, were not combatants–with some remarkable exceptions. But specifically, for women like Sarah and Cynthia, the enemy was an unseen, unfelt–'though ever present—danger. They hated our enemies in abstract ways: a response to the constant fear you could not put flesh to.
If they actually saw an enemy, it was only because we'd defeated him. His physical appearance, to the wenches, would be that of a humbled, docile, broken and–quite probably–bleeding man. And this image would evoke sympathy from t
he tender side of a woman's nature. So I well understood how them that were detached from the heart-pounding physical exertion and danger of battle–them that never watched death charge at them, and steal up mates in horrific binges of human slaughter–that them as were landlocked could afford a sensitivity that would be a fatal deficit in a warrior.
"The older one looked a noble man: prideful, confident and bolt-upright of posture," offered Sarah. "He displayed the military bearing of a man who'd known years of service–and of scars and pain. And quite recent, he'd lost most his forearm–hacked away in battle."
"I believe that was Orke's fine work!" I interrupted Sarah to enlighten her on those moments in the battle still vivid in me mind. But she dismissed me oration as inconsequential and disruptive to her line of thought.
"He was older, greying, with a thick jaw and dark eyes that always seemed to be looking just past you," Sarah continued. "Now the younger one had not a military appearance, nor did he wear a uniform. He had the look, the attire and the attitude of a nobleman. And he was so...."
"Oh aye! He was so absolutely gorgeous!" interrupted Cynthia, with lustful exuberance.
"A gorgeous man?" I queried, teasingly.
"Most assuredly!" Sarah bleated at the back of me head, as I was still looking at her sister for response.
As I swung meself around to face Sarah, most naturally, 'twas Cynthia who continued. "Handsome would do no justice to the countenance of this young stud. His head of hair: full, black, shining and free to the wind; his manly physique, displayed with elegant mannerisms–not the boorish strut and swagger of a soldier or seaman; his face, that of a Greek god, with smooth features and lavish lips."
The strange groan that Sarah uttered at that moment, I have no explanation for. But it was now quite evident to me why Sarah considered these proceedings a tragedy and a waste. "While I regret your 'loss,' me dears, these Spaniards, after all...."
"And as he bravely marched that path, heading towards his doom," Cynthia spake into the air, neither hearing me words or acknowledging me presence, "I thought, 'he lacks but the cross, to be the image of Christ approaching his crucifixion.'"
"Oh, blimey! We shot the Son of God!" I blurted out sarcastically, hoping to bring the sisters back down out of the clouds. I stood up and turned to face them both. "Dispense with these visions of gods and speak to me of their mortality–and specifically the demise of such!"
Cynthia began to tear up at these harsh words. I would not be put aside by this display of emotion, or waste more time mollycoddling the very sensitive Cynthia. Rubbing me hand back and forth across the side of me head several times, in a subconscious display of agitation, I turned to Sarah and stared with a wide-eyed glare that demanded attention.
"Well.... Well...." Sarah shifted her eyes about, to avoid me gaze as she recollected her thoughts. "Well, 'twas as we said–as the captain said to do; they were brung to the appointed place and prepared for execution. They were stood against the sea, with waves lapping at their boots, while being adorned in heavy, rusted old chains. At a distance of perhaps twenty paces in front of them, stood the men selected by the captain to do the deed. Each of these was issued a loaded firearm and instructed by the captain to raise it and take aim, at his command–and fire only at his command. Then the captain had his words translated into the Spanish. He first asked them to give their names."
Sarah fell silent and seemed to get lost again in her thoughts.
"And?" I asked, as the moment stretched towards eternity. But she couldn't pronounce–or rightly even remember–their names.
"They were kind of foreign sounding," said Cynthia, now composed enough to contribute her piece.
"Really? Mayhaps they were Spanish sounding?" (I most oft' resort to sarcasm when annoyed.)
Oblivious to me taunting ways, Cynthia responded, "Aye. And when the younger man delivered his name, it had so many words, 'twas like a full sentence long."
"No, sister," Sarah corrected, "'twas more like a poem: beautiful sounding words, and with a girl's name stuck somewheres in the middle."
"I've no need for dead men's names, nor for this silly, female confabulation. Will you just tell me of the massacre? I mean execution. And say it straight and quick!"
Sarah snapped back, "If you are a prognosticator who's foreseen all outcomes, then you'll gain no insight from our 'silly, female confabulation!' But you are not near clever as you think. Even a wise man is made the fool by presumption; and you are no wise man!"
I set back upon the bed and surrendered. "I'm sorry me sweet; pray continue."
'Twas apparently Cynthia's turn. "The older man spake out, and his words were translated to the captain as a request for a confessor. The captain told him there was no one available as could provide for the sacraments of his church. He said this with sympathy in his voice, and offered the condemned men a few moments to converse directly with the Lord. He commanded all to remain quiet and still for this time–and so we did."
Sarah picked up the story. "When the captain continued speaking, he was right somber, again pronouncing sentence upon the condemned. He spake briefly, but eloquently, about the necessity and justice of what we were about to do.
"Then he moved closer towards them and said, 'You men who are about to die: have you any final words to speak to those assembled?'
"The older man said nothing. He just stood bolt-upright and stared out in that way he had–seeming to look just past you."
"But the younger man," Cynthia returned, "he started speaking in perfect English! We were all dumbfounded.
"He said, 'Maybe there are just wars. Maybe there are honourable deaths in battle. But there is no justice in what you do here, today. You have no cause, or right, to execute us under law. And when you murder us, that action shall dishonour you, not us. I am not afraid to leave this life. But I shall not quietly submit to this farcical pretence at a legal process sanctified by justice! I've listened to your conversations. You talk about adherence to your own law, about equality in community, about nobility and honour in your activities and your cause. But these are just empty words. You know nothing of human dignity. You are nothing but murderers. You are just pirates. As you think to condemn me, I do so condemn you, before God. And He is the only true judge of man. And His is the only real justice.'
"Dead silence. We all stared at him in disbelief. 'Twas so unexpected!"
"As if your horse had gained a voice and delivered a lecture on all your failings!" Sarah completed her sister's thought, then continued. "The captain's pride was pricked by this barbed-tongued rhetoric, and he begun to debate the young man in chains, standing in the sea wash. Higgins interrupted to again shout, 'Just shoot the bastards!'
"The captain turned on him with an icy stare that would freeze your heart fast, amid beat. No one else dared interrupt, for some time.
"Though the captain is a great man of words, I could not understand the arrogance that made him believe he could reason this poor young man into accepting his fate as just and honourable."
"Aye," agreed Cynthia, "as the two men jousted with words and ideas, I found more reason in the other side of the argument. I had a dark foreboding that we would be just murderers; and I became anxious of the outcome. As the debate heated up, so too did the protagonists. What started as calm deliberation from both men, ended in a shouting match: each man trying to bombard the other by hurling logic at the top of his lungs. Finally, the Spaniard fell silent."
"Obviously, a strategy to shut down the captain," contributed Sarah. "And after rattling on a few more minutes, the captain fell quiet, too, being most likely too hoarse and exhausted to continue–for he'd surely never run out of words!
"At this moment, the Spaniard spake again. His voice was loud, for all to hear, but his speech was calm. 'If you would murder me, do so. But do not continue to torture my intellect with your self-righteous ignorance. I am repulsed by your company, and I shall ta
rry no longer. Murder me now!'
"I could swear I heard the captain say, 'Gladly!' but in a definitely more pronounced tone, he ordered the executioners to raise and aim their weapons. I clasped me hands over me ears and clamped me eyes shut. I wanted no part–no participation–in this terrible thing."
"Would that I could've done the same," said Cynthia, "but I was too caught up in the emotion of the thing. Me senses were compelled to focus on the tragedy unfolding before us."
"By God!" I was on me feet again. "Cannot one of you just say, 'Bang! Bang! They both fell dead!' and at least put me out of misery? Try to communicate with women and all you get is blathering, emotional gibberish!"
"And that is what little you think of women, friend Crockett?" Cynthia asked, setting out the snare.
"Indeed it is!" I replied, stepping into it.
"Would that include your precious Annalea?" asked Sarah, tightening the noose.
"Mind your tongue, woman!" I reacted, with a hand raised to slap her mouth. ('Tis something I would never do. But it makes a good show of it, and serves to visually reinforce the sincerity of me words. And the sisters always seemed to respond more positively to the physical than the verbal.)
"Mind yourself, Mr. Crockett!" spake Cynthia. "Dear, you know how much we loves Annalea. But we've more to tell. And if you've no time and no interest for 'blathering, emotional' women, then we'll not tell you what role Annalea played. For–after it all–she, too, is a woman."
Full trapped, again!
This time, I said nothing. I did nothing. I just sat quietly–penitently–on the edge of the bed, with me head bent, looking to the floor, me hands clasped together and me arms resting on me legs. Whipped!
Both sisters commenced talking at once, but Cynthia won out. "...aye, and then 'twas as the captain commanded his squad and prepared to issue that singular word that would propel them to their watery grave, he glanced back towards the condemned men and saw Annalea positioned 'twixt he and them. Oh! Me dear Crockett! 'Twas for certain I feared that any sound the captain uttered from that moment would cause an explosion of gunfire and the cruel end of your sweet pet, Annalea!"
Sarah could remain silent no longer. "'Though I was buttoned up like a clam, I could hear and feel a tremendous gasp arise from the crowd. I popped open me eyes to gaze upon our Annalea standing in harm's way! And then–in less than a blink–the captain put hisself 'twixt she and the gunmen!
"He found his voice to shout, 'Have you gone daft, lass? Stand aside, right now! Are you deaf, girl? I said right now!'
"'I would not be moved, I would be heard, sir,' Annalea protested.
"The captain yelled over his shoulder, 'Put up your weapons and stand down!'
"Returning his gaze to Annalea, he said, 'Speak now your piece, lass, but make it brief.'
"'Tis unlike you, sir, to be so unfair,' Annalea responded.
"'Unfair?' the captain was obviously offended. 'How come you to say this to me?'
"Annalea had succeeded in putting the captain off his mark–which was the best way to get his attention. 'Firstly, sir, you demand that what I might say on behalf of these men be brief; yet your condemnation of them is eternal. Secondly, I've seen you deliberate at length over the fate of some cutthroat; yet, in the case of these men, you scarcely drew breath 'twixt the indictment, the judgment and the execution–because they are Spanish. Others have contested your will, on the sea and on land; others have drawn our blood and taken lives from us; and, yet, these others have been allowed the opportunity to redeem themselves, demonstrate a potential benefit to our community, and be made the "offer." But not so these men–because they are Spanish. If I cannot appeal to your sense of chivalry–to a sense of fairness–then might I appeal to your entrepreneurial nature: the logic of enterprise. Allow me to paraphrase that which I've been told that a coolheaded man of business once said, in a moment of heated passions. These Spaniards present no threat, and cannot bear witness against anyone–but they might serve. The young gentleman, especially, might fetch a large ransom for the small price of keeping him alive.'
"Having spake what was on her mind, Annalea looked to the captain, her eyes brightened and just the whisper of a smile upon her lips.
"The captain's eyes were also brightened–and a full grin broke across his face. 'I've been cut and sliced in many a duel, but to be pierced to the heart with the rapier of me own words....'
"There was an extended pause as the two of 'em stared long at each other, firmly, but with affection. Eventually, the captain continued, 'Should his ransoming take as long as that one of which you speak–and for which I still await–I'll be an old man, indeed, when I see me reward. But, as this venture has already been most profitable, I suppose I can forgo this act of "vengeance," and look patiently towards another profit. But he best be of some use to us, in the meanwhile. And the other one, too.'"
Then came Cynthia. "Not taking to the sound of his words, or the turn in events, the new 'recruits'–sworn enemies to the hated Spanish–became boisterous. They demanded their pound of flesh–their revenge–in vulgar and threatening terms. The captain took this as mutiny, and ordered our armed men to seize them and hold them under arrest.
"In terms they'd understand–much as the terms they'd used, which shall not reissue from this mouth–he informed them that he'd tolerated all he would from them. He would not tolerate insubordination. They were not going to override his orders or question his decisions. They were, however, going to spend yet another night in the 'tomb,' to consider seriously and exhaustively if they were capable of living and working amenably in our community.
"'Remove them from me sight!' the captain ordered. 'I've had enough of these doings–and I am for me quarters.'
"Having already cleared the crowd, the captain looked 'round one more time and shouted to Annalea, 'Until I've made a final decision in this matter, these Spaniards shall be under your direction, Mam' Tiére's care and in the custody of Mr. Crockett–wherever the hell he is!'"
"What!" Now I was on me feet to stay!
Chapter XII
To the Court of St. James