voice.
'Now, Biddies,' Haggard said. 'You'll not pretend to believe in that nonsense.' He watched the girl reach the land. Her legs trembled and for a moment she nearly fell. But she regained her balance, gazed into the crowd, and looked away again with a little toss of her head, preferring to stare back out to sea. She wore what must have once been quite a decent blue gown. Now its rags exposed her shoulders and left her legs bare from the knees down; she had exquisite calves and ankles. Just looking at her made him wish to adjust his breeches.
'Well, Mr. Haggard, I'll tell you straight, I never did,' Biddies confessed. 'But when you see something happen with your own eyes . . .'
Tell me.' Haggard gazed at the girl, watched the wind take her gown and wrap it close round her body. Fifteen? Or just young for her age?
'Well, Mr. Haggard, they was in the hold, the women one end and the men the other. But this one always had ideas above her station, and the others soon took a dislike to her. Well, sir, there was a quarrel and a fight, and this one all but killed the other. Well, sir, my mate, Tom Hargreaves, and a good man he was too, well, sir, he decided the fault was the girl's, and he ordered her twelve lashes. "You'll not do it," she said. So she was strung up, and the cat put across her. She took it without screaming, sir. Just a tear on her cheek. But when it was done, and they cut her down, she looked at Tom, and she said, "I curse you, Tom Hargreaves. I curse you into your grave." ' He paused, and wiped sweat from his neck.
'Well?' Haggard found he was interested despite himself.
'A week later, he was dead.'
'Dead? She poisoned him? Knifed him?'
'He just took to his bed, Mr. Haggard. Took to his bunk and died.'
'Coincidence.' 'Witchcraft, Mr. Haggard.'
'You'll get no court to convict her of that, Biddies. This is 1780, not 1680.'
'I've an entire crew will swear to it, Mr. Haggard. So will those eleven over there.'
Haggard watched the girl. Despite her determination, her legs would no longer support her. Slowly her knees gave way and she sank into a bundle on the ground. Dust eddied about her shoulders. Haggard walked towards her, slowly. Are you a bad man, John Haggard? Are you everything they say of you?
He stood before her, but she did not seem to notice. Or had she noticed? Her head started to move, then slumped again. Haggard put out his riding crop, tucked the end of the bone handle under her chin, raised her head. Her eyes looked into his. They were pale blue, like his own.
'What's she called?' He walked back to Biddies.
'Emma, Mr. Haggard. Emma Dearborn is what her sheet says.'
'Condemned for stealing from her mistress. You'll not convict her of more than that in Barbados. Biddies.'
'Well, sir, I've a crew . . .'
'You've a magistrate standing here, Biddies. You may take my word for it. But you can make her over to me.'
Oh, indeed, you are a bad man, John Haggard. Those who criticise you, who hate you, do not know the half of it. But how his heart swelled in tune with his penis at the sight of so much feminine beauty, sitting there, waiting to be destroyed.
To you, Mr. Haggard?'
Ten pounds, is it? I'll give you twenty.'
Biddies frowned, and pulled his nose. 'I'm not sure I understand you, Mr. Haggard.'
'She'll wish she could hang, Biddies. Twenty pounds.'
The girl knew they were discussing her even if she could not hear what they were saying. She glanced from one to the other of the men, and a frown was gathering between her eyes.
Twenty pounds,' Biddies murmured. Of which ten would be for his pocket. 'She's yours, Mr. Haggard.'
Haggard nodded, looked into the throng, snapped his fingers. 'You. You belong to Mr. Crippen?'
The big black man hastily touched his forehead. ‘ I does, Mr. Haggard, suh.'
Tell him I want the hire of a kittareen. Now. He'll have it back this afternoon.'
'Yes, suh, Mr. Haggard.' The Negro put down his bale of cloth and hurried up Broad Street.
'I thank
'Now, Biddies,' Haggard said. 'You'll not pretend to believe in that nonsense.' He watched the girl reach the land. Her legs trembled and for a moment she nearly fell. But she regained her balance, gazed into the crowd, and looked away again with a little toss of her head, preferring to stare back out to sea. She wore what must have once been quite a decent blue gown. Now its rags exposed her shoulders and left her legs bare from the knees down; she had exquisite calves and ankles. Just looking at her made him wish to adjust his breeches.
'Well, Mr. Haggard, I'll tell you straight, I never did,' Biddies confessed. 'But when you see something happen with your own eyes . . .'
Tell me.' Haggard gazed at the girl, watched the wind take her gown and wrap it close round her body. Fifteen? Or just young for her age?
'Well, Mr. Haggard, they was in the hold, the women one end and the men the other. But this one always had ideas above her station, and the others soon took a dislike to her. Well, sir, there was a quarrel and a fight, and this one all but killed the other. Well, sir, my mate, Tom Hargreaves, and a good man he was too, well, sir, he decided the fault was the girl's, and he ordered her twelve lashes. "You'll not do it," she said. So she was strung up, and the cat put across her. She took it without screaming, sir. Just a tear on her cheek. But when it was done, and they cut her down, she looked at Tom, and she said, "I curse you, Tom Hargreaves. I curse you into your grave." ' He paused, and wiped sweat from his neck.
'Well?' Haggard found he was interested despite himself.
'A week later, he was dead.'
'Dead? She poisoned him? Knifed him?'
'He just took to his bed, Mr. Haggard. Took to his bunk and died.'
'Coincidence.' 'Witchcraft, Mr. Haggard.'
'You'll get no court to convict her of that, Biddies. This is 1780, not 1680.'
'I've an entire crew will swear to it, Mr. Haggard. So will those eleven over there.'
Haggard watched the girl. Despite her determination, her legs would no longer support her. Slowly her knees gave way and she sank into a bundle on the ground. Dust eddied about her shoulders. Haggard walked towards her, slowly. Are you a bad man, John Haggard? Are you everything they say of you?
He stood before her, but she did not seem to notice. Or had she noticed? Her head started to move, then slumped again. Haggard put out his riding crop, tucked the end of the bone handle under her chin, raised her head. Her eyes looked into his. They were pale blue, like his own.
'What's she called?' He walked back to Biddies.
'Emma, Mr. Haggard. Emma Dearborn is what her sheet says.'
'Condemned for stealing from her mistress. You'll not convict her of more than that in Barbados. Biddies.'
'Well, sir, I've a crew . . .'
'You've a magistrate standing here, Biddies. You may take my word for it. But you can make her over to me.'
Oh, indeed, you are a bad man, John Haggard. Those who criticise you, who hate you, do not know the half of it. But how his heart swelled in tune with his penis at the sight of so much feminine beauty, sitting there, waiting to be destroyed.
To you, Mr. Haggard?'
Ten pounds, is it? I'll give you twenty.'
Biddies frowned, and pulled his nose. 'I'm not sure I understand you, Mr. Haggard.'
'She'll wish she could hang, Biddies. Twenty pounds.'
The girl knew they were discussing her even if she could not hear what they were saying. She glanced from one to the other of the men, and a frown was gathering between her eyes.
Twenty pounds,' Biddies murmured. Of which ten would be for his pocket. 'She's yours, Mr. Haggard.'
Haggard nodded, looked into the throng, snapped his fingers. 'You. You belong to Mr. Crippen?'
The big black man hastily touched his forehead. ‘ I does, Mr. Haggard, suh.'
Tell him I want the hire of a kittareen. Now. He'll have it back this afternoon.'
'Yes, suh, Mr. Haggard.' The Negro put down his bale of cloth and hurried up Broad Street.
'I thank
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