Annalea, Princess of Nemusmar

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  Orke was a black buccaneer. Not the largest of our crew, but mayhaps the most savage fighter. If Orke had a knife, and you were fool enough to come at him–even with a cutlass in both your hands–your widow could never identify the remains. Fish bait would be the only use for the pieces of you that might be gathered. 'Tis me opinion that this animal savagery was his natural response to white opponents. (As a natural fact, most of our enemies were white. Our quarrels with natives were few, and largely unprovoked.)

  Truth be told, it was as though Orke was two diverse spirits, competing in one body. One of these was a gentle soul–an admirer of life. But the other was a tortured soul–a dark being which disdains life. As a crewmate, Orke was always on the tack and had become, in me opinion–and I daresay the captain's as well–indispensable to the success of many a venture. As to his talents as a warrior, I believe I gave you the gist. And as a man, there was no better–no more loyal–companion than was Orke. Those eyes that appeared to me as blood red with rage, in the heat of battle, could shine in response to robust conversation, literally sparkle with laughter at the antics of a crewmate (or a bit of his own high-spirited tomfoolery), and fill with tears of sorrow at the death of a close comrade. When ashore at Nemusmar, Orke had his own quarters, lived amongst and consorted with mostly whites, venturing to the black quarters no more than any of his white mates.

  As to the source of the demon side of Orke, the evidence was brandished on his body as well as soul. Never could I approach the man from behind, when his back was bared, without feeling a cringe to me own soul. For certain, I've hacked more than one man near to pieces, in the furor of battle. 'Twas whatever I must do to be the one alive at the outcome. When me enemy succumbed, I withdrew from me course of action. Thus was me intent: not given to sadistic pleasures by inflicting agony and a slow, suffering death.

  To view Orke's backside, yea verily from his nape to his ankles, was to gaze upon a mottled, leathered hide with scars–oft' times reopened–badly healed and patterned across and over one another. That was the first thing I noticed about Orke when we took the packet he was on, so many years back. I was behind him when we brought the slaves on deck to hear the captain's usual "offer." For a man so oft' unmoved by the horrors of battle, as such I was, I remember cringing at the sight of that tortured body, with so many scars still fresh.

  Orke was the only slave on that ship in chains, and after the captain's speech was delivered and interpreted by those of our mates what spake the Spanish and French, he was unshackled. 'Twas then I noticed the second thing about Orke. I saw that blood red look of his eyes and watched dumbfounded as, with one great leap, Orke was upon the captain, wrenching out the life with his bare hands. Instantly regaining me bearings, I grabbed a nearby mallet, rushed Orke and smashed the mallet down upon the rawest sores of his back. If you've heard a banshee wail, 'twould be like a songbird's voice when compared to that unearthly screech that came from Orke's very soul. His body folded upwards with head and legs higher than his back as he lifted from the captain and rolled onto the deck writhing in pain–and anger. So many of our crewmates jumped upon him I could no longer see even a patch of black skin below that heap.

  To me, it was an interesting matter of the human nature of men that Orke was so soon to forgive me that blow and, eventually, become one of me truest mates. Of course, it first was necessary that the captain forgive Orke, and that was not a convenient matter. The entire return voyage to Nemusmar, the captain remained unconscious and, methinks, nears to death. Back on shore, he was returned from rough waters, but remained groggy for yet another day. At first, awares only of his surroundings–and with no remembrance of our latest venture and its odd conclusion, it was set to me to relate all that occurred to the captain. He determined that a trial should be held of this brute slave the next day, at noon, followed by the hanging, and then fell to rest 'til nearly trial time.

  You might set it down to the flukieness of our ways, and our staunch adherence to our own law, that Orke was still alive to face this trial. Every man-jack on that packet, that day, felt as did I: attack me captain and your life is forfeit. What saved Orke was probably the strike I laid upon his morbid back. Our poor captain was rendered unconscious, but not quite dead. Dead was simple: no captain, no Orke. As I commanded in the captain's "absence," I instructed the blackie be no further harmed, but rather clapped in irons, to await the captain's outcome and determine his pleasure–should he recover.

  Back on shore at Nemusmar, Orke was locked securely in the larder of the common house, still in chains and with a two-man guard constantly afore the barred door. I was in continual transit betwixt the captain's quarters, to provide for his needs, and the common house, to learn what I could of our prisoner, at the captain's behest. 'Twas at this point in time, while questioning Orke in vain, and then interrogating the other slaves taken from that packet, we discovered that Orke knew none of the European tongues, was only four months from Africa (most of that time under transport to the Indies), and could barely be understood by any of the other blackies.

  This turn disquieted the captain. Not so the crew, what'd assembled a handsome gallows for the occasion–or the landlocked, who'd prepared a fine after-hanging banquet and were decked out in their party best. But the captain was a thoughtful man: oft' times an annoying quality, it seemed to the rest of us.

  The captain was no procrastinator; whatever assailed us, he made the right decision instantly and we acted upon it without question. Many's the time his decisiveness saved our hides. But, on the other hand, he was not one to rush to judgement when another man's life hung in the balance. The captain felt a need to know a man, and understand his actions, afore he passed on him. And Orke was a puzzlement to the captain–to us all. ('Course that didn't bother us in the slightest, as a hanging was a festive time, if it was not your own!)

  So the captain summoned me to his bedside, instructed me to postpone the trial for three hours, dressed hisself (with some help) and we prepared to the black quarters. There we entered Mam' Tiére's quarters and sat at her table. The captain drank of the herbal tea she prepared to aid his weakened body, and sought her opinion of this wild African who near cost him his life. What Mam' spake of the brutality of a slave's life (especially a strange slave right out of transport) was not news to the captain. He'd witnessed first hand the devil at work in Christianizing Indians and Negroes alike. And he'd seen the monster in the gentleman who owns and commands another man, body and soul. What he was unfamiliar with, and became fascinated by her telling, was the slave's experience in transport and before such, as a captive in his native land. The miseries Mam' described went far beyond the captain's ken. And he a man who'd seen and suffered (and, mayhaps, inflicted) quite some miseries, in his time.

  Chapter V

  The Savaging of Innocence