SquidgeWorld Archive

Typing convention: / is used for thoughts. # is used for speaking in French. * - * - * is used for scene changes and passages of time.

Chapter 1 - May 15th, 1733

"Coggins, do send Gabriel, with my regrets, of course, to dance at Lord Dunsany's ball in my stead. Mayhaps he'll meet an eligible lady there and settle down like Michael." The Governor of Jamaica nodded to his butler and turned to the louvered windows, his white-leather gloved hands pushing them open so that he could look out through his gold and silver mask. "I half expect Gabriel next to turn pirate or something. He does defend them rather well in court."

Coggins lowered his eyes, sorrowing at the painful effort it took for the man to operate the narrow louvers, and in the past, would have offered assistance, but ever the Governor would insist, being a proud man, on doing for himself those things which he still could. The butler then smiled at the pleased amusement evident in the Governor's voice as he spoke of his son and with the understanding he was being dismissed, bowed from the waist. "As you wish, Milord. Shall that be all, Sir?"

"For the moment. I'll ring if I need you again this evening."

"Very good, Sir." Coggins left, closing the doors to the study silently behind him.

Governor Sir Francis Lord Nihilin, Earl Adammair, Graf Langhart von Hinten, Vicomte DuLit closed the louvers tightly, pulled the draperies, extinguished all but one candle in his study, sat with his back to the light and wearily removed his thin leather gloves, revealing the scar that slanted across his palm. He rubbed the scar gently with his scarred thumb smiling slightly, lost in thought, then, pulling himself back to the duty of the present, removed his mask in order to read the latest reports from Fort Charles.

He'd had the finest smoked glass lenses set into the mask to save his eyes from pain and certain blindness from sunlight, and for most purposes it served very well, but it wasn't quite clear enough to read through. Coggins knew to stay away when Sir Francis was in this mode; the butler had been told the story...the last time a servant entered while the Governor was reading his reports, there was heard horrific shrieking and the man fled the mansion, never to be seen again.

For such was the governor's rumored visage that horses would bolt, women would faint, children scream, men would tremble in their boots and the fiercest of dogs would cower. His voice wasn't much better; low and raspy, the governor wheezed huskily from severe damage to his throat and lungs.

The people of Port Royal accepted him at first only because of His Majesty the King's letter proclaiming his appointment upon Governor Swann's retiring three years before, but they soon learned to not only accept but to love the new governor, once he proved his mettle by funneling most of the tax money back into the island of Jamaica.

Sweeping civil reforms were instituted: economic restraints on slavery; the pro bono services of a doctor, hand-picked by Governor Nihilin, made available to certain neighborhoods and the less fortunate in the area, to make sure the poor were healthy as could be expected and all their diseases treated free...with all the fees paid by the Governor himself, if the rumors were to be believed; it was made a strictly enforced crime against the city to empty chamber pots in the streets or to toss dead things into the bay.

A city rendering plant was established by the city council to be operated by a licensed knacker, the only wages being allowed to keep the profits of the hides and renderings for the service of collection and disposal. All merchants were required to have a license to vend; said license only being granted upon the condition of planting of flowers. Lots of flowers.

Many such laws were passed; there were surprising few who complained, and they were quickly hushed, for it was quite clear that everyone benefited.

Where there had been dark and muddy alleyways filled with stinking refuse, there were neat, cobblestone walkways, well lighted and safe. The town certainly smelled better as there were flower boxes all the way along the main street, and in the back streets and gangways one no longer encountered swarms of rats, broken bottles, piles of odiferous garbage, or the dead bodies of cats, dogs, and the occasional person, as was often the case before. And the annual epidemics of summer were remarkably sparse and easily contained.

The poor and indigent of the town benefited as in return for the service of seeing to the collection of trash and lighting of the alleyways; they were paid an additional bonus for streets and alleys cleaned daily and were generously permitted to keep any trash and offal as they found, which they could use as fuel or fertilizer to increase the production of their gardens.

The merchants and the rich planters benefited from the lowering of crime and less embargo of trade due to the ports being quarantined for plague. And even the slaves benefited when the tariffs on imported slaves to Jamaica was set so high it was no longer profitable for slave masters to operate there; it now being more difficult to replace slaves, planters found it to their advantage to give their current stock better treatment than they had before.

A generous bounty of double current market value was paid to slave owners for each slave set free, and a reasonable allotment to each slave so freed in order that they might have a fair chance to make it as self-supporting men and women, either working for shares on the plantations, for wages in the shops or operating a fishing boat in the small fleet the Governor himself subsidized to supply the town with fresh seafood.

The fishing fleet provided employment for the indigent of the town who were permitted to live on the boats for rent paid at the end of each day with a fourth of their catch by volume or weight and a fishing tax with another fourth, leaving them the other half to eat or sell, as they so chose.

The fishermen quickly realized that they could bring home as few as four fish, keep one to eat for their dinner and have one to sell in the fish market. As the larger, deep water fishermen brought in mostly cod and tuna to be dried and salted down for storage, the smaller boats ranged along the reefs for fish and shellfish of little commercial use. Flounder, sweet Bonito, lobster, crab and conk and simply every kind of sundry shellfish to tempt one's pallet. The tiny bluepoint oysters being the particular favorite of the Governor.

A hefty fee for fishing off the public docks was levied which was waived for orphaned children. No one minded such, since there were plenty of other places to fish, and it was now rare to have one's day spoilt by the sight of a ragged, emaciated child disturbing your refuse pit searching for such discarded scraps from your last night's dinner not good enough to slop the pig, worrying your dog by wresting away its marrow bone or bothering vendors and shoppers by begging amongst the market stalls.

Slave children of six years and under were included in the manumission of their last enslaved parent; those seven and older, who were, of course, field-size and thus profitable to the planters were entered into indenture and for seven years worked out their contracts unless the indenture contract was bought out or worked off by their families beforehand.

This arrangement was remarkably profitable to all, as the laws of indenture were specific and prevented cruel and unusual treatment such as could be meted out to a slave, the planters did not have the expense of feeding and paying property taxes on the children yet too young to work and freedmen were quite willing to sharecrop on the plantations until their last indentured child was able to leave. Neither did the planters have to support any longer those slaves too old or otherwise unable to work the plantation.

The town benefited heartily from the fresh produce that now flowed into the marketplace from the well-tended garden plots of freedmen who grew food crops for local consumption instead of the cash crops grown for export by the tobacco and cotton planters.

In addition, an industry of street vendors had grown up and flower bedecked pushcarts now roamed the market hawking flower seeds, sweetmeats, delicate pastries, boiled dumplings and unusual delicacies from sea and garden, including fresh raw oysters, roasted peanuts, onion fritters and crab cakes deep fried in fresh lard while you wait.

The economy benefited as various freedmen, searching for a cash crop themselves, gathered and dried the black ginger that had been growing wild in Jamaica since the days of the Spaniards and which made the best gingerbread and cactus candy anyone ever tasted. They distilled from cane mash heretofore merely hauled to the edge of town and dumped after molasses production, limited amounts of fine flavored rums, spiced brandies and exotic liquors and oils which they sold to the local bakers, housewives and taverns or bartered with the fishermen to take to market on other islands.

Their wares became all the rage at fetes and balls of the social season after the much talked-about garden party at which the Governor had served orange and peppermint aperitif and ginger lemonade to the ladies, peach brandy to the gentlemen, and with the coffee, spiced rum cakes and pastries filled with an amaretto paste and thick with something he called "cinnamon-_mocha crème".

It became a point of pride with the ladies of the nobility, when making social calls, to offer each other new recipes for using the various new liquors, or simply providing a generous dollop in their tea; fulfilling one's social duties became less of a chore for the ingénues and the matrons of the town became significantly more mellow.

The word quickly spread that the Governor was somewhat fond of cinnamon brandied peach crème tarts, and it became the civic duty of the ladies of the town to see that a regular supply was delivered to the mansion. For which the Governor formally thanked them with notes on official stationery and invitations they proudly displayed in parlors and on their drawing room mantles for weeks, and for which the street children of the town silently thanked them when Coggins, the Governor's butler, after swearing them to secrecy, daily distributed the tarts out the back door of the Governor's kitchen, smiling to himself the while that the urchin children of the poor were treated to good fresh milk and eggs at no cost to the town and the alcohol was cooked out anyhow.

Rich and poor alike loved Governor Nihilin, despite his appearance, which, in truth, no one in the town could admit to having seen. They'd only heard tales of horror of his disfigurements, which remained hidden under long, flowing white and gold robes, a hooded cloak, the thinnest of kidskin gloves, and a gold and silver Thespian mask, half comedy, half tragedy, with a strip of small, perfectly matched, black pearls bisecting the face lengthwise. The eyes were fathomless, black: smoked glass inlaid into the metal, effectively hiding the Governor's own tormented eyes.

While he graciously accepted invitations to dinners or parties, the Governor would courteously abjure to attend, invariably sending his second son, Gabriel, an accomplished barrister, the defense attorney most often sought after and hired by pirates captured by the Navy out of Fort Charles. The young man chose his clients carefully, taking only those pirates who could demonstrate some socially significant, redeeming qualities saving more than half from the gallows, and at least a quarter of the rest of them from the mines, sending the majority to auction into indenture working the docks and the plantations. Some few had actually been talked into joining the Navy, the able-bodied seamen remaining at Fort Charles; new Marines, however, having been issued guns, were wisely shipped off to serve seven long years' duty in the Far East.

Gabriel, being the son of a governor, a bachelor, and in fact, quite handsome and well turned out, was a much welcomed guest, eagerly sought in the drawing rooms and at the dining tables of the hostess-elite of Port Royal, being considered to be "quite a catch", and the various matrons with eligible daughters had thus made it their "life's work", as it were, to ensure this "prize fishy" did not get away. /Perhaps the ladies are as afraid he'll turn pirate as I am./

Michael, the Governor's eldest son, on the other hand, was the local magistrate, and apparently quite happily married, albeit to a much-envied woman of, according to whispered gossip, questionable heritage. /Questionable, my roasted arse...there's NO question where he found her!/

Sir Francis was actually quite proud of the fact that Michael had married the lovely and infamous Anamaria, First Mate of the Black Pearl after Gabriel saved her once again from the noose, though Michael had never tamed the little hellcat and claimed he never even considered it, intending, rather, to enjoy her spirited fire; his intent also being to enjoy a long and healthy lifespan intact with all his parts notwithstanding. /There isn't a man on earth that could tame Ana!/

His third and youngest son, Raphael, now ten years old, was the only one of the Nihilin family never to have seen Francis before the accident and having no notion of what his father had looked like then, he didn't perceive his father as disfigured and a grotesquerie. His eyes alone held no pity for the Governor.

Michael had named the boy after the archangel, as he and Gabriel were named after archangels and Francis loved Raphael with all his heart; not only for his unpitying love, but because Raphael represented freedom; freedom, because their mother, his wife, had died giving birth to Raphael on the very day of the fire.

Finishing his reading, Lord Nihilin put his mark and seal on the reports that required signing. Although his mark was very stylized and quite elegantly distinctive, he wished that he could still write elegantly; the fire that had stolen his good looks also stole much of his ability to hold a quill or utensil for very long or even properly at all. Oh, he could eat and drink well enough--if no one around him minded his apparent clumsiness with the silverware. He could drink his tea, juices or milk without problems--with two hands, always, for precaution, as it was a rare thing indeed that both hands failed him at once. And he could still sit a horse--if that horse had been trained like his most prized possession: a pure white mare from a province in Austria, a Lipizzaner, a "high-school" horse trained to do virtually anything he wanted by whistles alone.

Pulling a book from the shelf behind his desk, Francis read over a journal from the past; the outrageous exploits of a half-mad pirate ten years' dead. He put it away, as usual, after mere moments; it was never enough, but it was too much for him these days; he could not allow himself to become agitated. He had enough problems breathing as it was without the passion of emotions entering into the fray. The least hitch in his raspiness would bring sons and servants, and Ana, very shrill, from all corners, to bully him into bed for at least a day, to coddle and cluck and fuss about him, which in truth hurt more than it helped, until his faithful butler would finally step in and fend them off, and give him the modicum of peace he must settle for these days. Still, it was good to be cared about. Who knew? And thinking on this, if Francis could have grinned, he would have.

The Governor grabbed up his mask and fitted it back into place lest he scare the help on his way to his private rooms. While most noblemen and public officials were dressed, undressed, toileted and otherwise attended by their valets, Nihilin insisted on grooming himself and being alone in his sanctuary at all times except for his immediate family; the only time the staff were allowed in even to clean was when the Governor was absent from the premesis. If there were an emergency, one of his sons would bring word of it to him; the older two had gotten used to his ghastly visage, though they preferred to remember him as he'd been before the accident.

The windows in his bedchamber were permanently shuttered and heavily draped, allowing no light inside. There was a single small candle permitted on the vanity, and no other light in the room, per the Governor's orders.

A knock at the door told him that Raphael wanted to bid him goodnight, as he did every night. He smiled, carefully placing the head piece and mask on a wig-holder. He sat on the bed. "Come in, Raphael."

The ten-year-old bundle of energy threw the door open and entered, quickly slamming it again and grinning. "We missed you at dinner, father." He hugged the elder Nihilin, carefully, gently, so as not to hurt him.

Francis smiled at his son, returning the hug lightly, barely touching him but tenderly nonetheless and as tightly as he dared. "I had extra work to do, sweet. I'm sorry I missed it. I missed you horribly."

Raphael turned his face toward his father and kissed his scarred cheek. "Promise me you won't miss dinner again...please father?"

His father rasped out the croaking bark that was all that remained of his once quicksilver laugh. "You know I can't make that promise, Raphael, but I can tell you I'll TRY. Is that good enough?" He would never lie to his family. Truth to tell, he rarely, if ever, lied to ANYONE except by forgetfulness, though he was not adverse to telling that truth in the most egregiously convoluted ways when he didn't especially like the person to whom he was speaking.

Raphael drooped. "But we NEED you at dinner, Father! Michael and Gabriel are forever discussing their days in court; Ana and I almost fall asleep in the soup. We need you!"

"Oh, thank you. Now I'm just there to keep you and Ana from drowning in the Crème de Noix? Thank you very much." Francis gave Raphael what would have been a mock frown, had he eyebrows.

Raphael grinned, basking in the play of his father's joke, shaking his head 'no'. "'t was a choice of Lobster Bisque or Shrimp Consommé tonight; you know Ana hates Walnut soup, cook would never serve it, especially after last time." Their eyes twinkled a bit, both remembering 'last time' and how far into the hallway darling Ana had heaved a bowl of the noisome stuff: thirty feet, at least. After a moment, Raphael continued his pleading. "But, you know what I mean, Father. You make us laugh. Dinner is a happy time with you there."

"And now I'm a clown am I? A jester who must perform to your amusement lest you lack for evening's entertainment?" The Governor's voice grizzled in what passed for a chuckle. "Don't worry, lad. I understand. But Ana also has many funny stories she can tell. Why doesn't she interrupt them, pray tell? I know she's never had a problem interrupting ME."

"Oh she says they aren't nearly interesting enough to interrupt. I try, Father, but they don't even think to notice us at all while they talk about the court. And they're loud enough when the argument gets heated that we can't hear each other over them."

"Ah! And so it is that I am to be thrown to the young lions for your convenience." Francis knew quite well that Ana considered it his duty as head of the house to preside over the dinner table and he resented the subtle bullying, but the forlorn pleading look on his son's face forced the governor into sympathy with the lad and he melted. "Oh, very well, I'll talk to them then. It's very rude to leave the rest of the family out of the conversation, and they both know better. But I will try to make it to dinner from now on." Raphael looked skeptical. "I promise you, I really will try." Francis assured his son, then changed the subject, knowing that promise though he might, most days, he would be unable to do more than 'try' to attend dinner. "So...how are your lessons coming? Remember our deal: you make the same headway here as you would have at The Hague, or off you go to be coddled and cooed over by the old-maiden aunts you love so well."

Raphael shuddered, stricken to his core and so desperate for the thought of it, that, for the moment, he failed to realize his father's continued teasing for what it was. "According to Master Townsend, I've surpassed what I would have learned at The Hague by now. I'm approximately a year and a half ahead."

"Good. I'll speak to him tomorrow. I want to add a couple of subjects to your daily program."

"Oh Father. Am I not learning fast enough? I just said I'm ahead--"

Francis laughed. "Yes, yes, and yes! You are learning fast enough that I wanted to add a couple of subjects that you wouldn't have had for another two years: sailing and swordsmanship. But if you think you can't do it, I certainly don't want--" The Governor shrugged theatrically.

"OH! I'm sorry, Father. Yes, I'd like to learn those. I want to be as good as you when I grow up."

"You mean as good as I WAS, Raphael. I can't wield a sword anymore and you know it. I'd probably drop it and stab myself in the foot." He said wistfully, with a tone of pathos in his voice.

The adoring Raphael would have none of it and stood his ground. "Yes...as good as I've read you were. One of the greatest swordsmen in the Caribbean, and the greatest sea captain ever!"

"You read too much I think. A FRIEND of mine was the greatest swordsman in the Caribbean, and he still is. Though you're right about the sea captain part, I give you that. And I fully intend that you shall surpass me there. I'll arrange it with Commodore Norrington for you to go out on the Sea Hunter as an ad hoc midshipman the next time he takes a ship out after an overhaul on a shakedown-tour. That way you won't be in any battles and will be on a well-outfitted navy ship that doesn't leak too badly for a while."

Raphael giggled delightedly at the veiled insult, knowing the Admiral, whom the Governor insisted on calling "Commodore", pretending to forget his last promotion to Fleet Admiral, would stuff him with sweets and ply him with pastries while pumping him for the Governor's latest jibe. It was a game his father played with his old friend. Both the Admiral and his father knew it and kept him well supplied with quips to carry back and forth. "Now, it's time for my sleep, and yours too, my fine lad. So, off you go, now. Shoo!" The Governor hugged his favorite son again and ushered him out the door.

Nihilin undressed quickly, putting his boots next to the bed and the robes, gloves, and hooded cloak carefully folded on the chair at the "vanity". /Vanity. What an absolutely ludicrous name for anything I would have in my rooms. Makes me sound the very ponce./ He thought this often, but could never figure out a better word for it. Now standing naked, he looked at himself in the mirror.

/Bloody Hell./ Even HE could not look long. Horribly disfigured, his left side was angrily mottled, discolored, with ridged and puckered flesh of one continuous burn scar that ran from the top of his head down the side of his face and body to just below his knees. His sea boots had saved the lower part of his legs from the fire. Ah, his boots; the ones he wore nowadays gave him an extra three inches in height without appearing to lift him at all. He smiled at them at the thought, then considered his image in the mirror again.

Apparently he'd curled into a ball from pain while trapped in the fire, as his belly and lap were barely, if at all touched by scarring. /A perfectly good Willie, but nowhere to use it./ He sighed. His right side, on the other hand, looked like he'd been flayed alive; the skin was missing in many places leaving seeping wounds that had never quite healed, where the meat had been bared of skin and eventually sloughed off, leaving deep holes in the muscle, and angry patches of keloid scaring and granulated crust where the remaining layers of skin had tried to repair itself, though he knew that the physicians had made much headway in stretching what skin he'd had left to cover the area, they really had, but, there were limits and they had finally been unable to finish the job.

It was a fair miracle in the first place that he had lived through the inferno that disfigured him. /It's a miracle I lived through the ordeal the bloody physicians put me through after the fire as well! And I'm not even going to think about that hag of a witchdoctor Ana brought in to torture me. Getting even with me, Ana was, for stea...commandeering her boat. Was it only fifteen years ago? Seems I woke screaming for a lifetime./

His head was the worst. A few wisps of black hair grew on one side of his scarred head; his nose had been melted off his face...oh not completely, just enough to make him look like a real monster. His eyes had been damaged; the lids were, well, pretty much gone, as were most of the outer parts of his ears. He could hear, nominally, over the constant ringing that had started with the explosion. He could see, thank God, minimally; his lidless eyes were now so sensitive to light that he dare not have more than one shaded candle in a completely blackened room unless he wore his mask with its smoked glass, and he had to sit with his back to it at that and take the light over the shoulder.

The skin from the right side of his face had pretty much been cooked, destroyed by way of the burning-hot iron that had pinned him to the floor and fried him like a flounder on a grill; scar tissue had drawn up the corner of his mouth, distorting it and there was a portion of lip missing, showing his teeth; the rest of the jaw area, though heavily scarred had healed reasonably enough. He could speak well enough, form words that weren't too slurred if he concentrated and keep food in his mouth and not dripping down his chin when he chewed, most of the time. He was thankful that the scarring from the fire had left his face hairless; he couldn't bear having his face touched by more than a light touch with the softest of cloths, and having to use a razor on it would have driven him mad indeed.

When he realized he was staring and starting to dwell on the fire damage, he hurriedly tore his gaze away from the mirror and grabbed the bandana he wore to bed; laundered fresh daily, he spread it liberally with a thick layer of soothing gel Ana concocted from green coconut, aloe and cucumber which she trusted to no one else. He climbed into bed, muttering as he did as usual, about "smelling like a damned fruit salad", settled into the duvet, nestled comfortably as possible into the deep eider-down and adjusted the bandana, slipping it over his head to hide his staring eyes so that he could sleep.

Not that he found sleep very restive; invariably his dreams would start, taking him back, always back, to the agony of the fire, the pain and terror of watching the flames eat their way towards him across the tar-covered gundeck, the horror of discovering that he was not, after all, going to find relief and die as they all expected, the months of screaming agony and the years of long and painful recovery, and the continuing and still painful therapy. But there was always Raphael, and the love of his family to consider. And so he had lived, after a fashion, at least content, if not exactly happily, ever after.