chaplain – three good words

November 7, 2014November 7, 2014

saving grace, 4

Everyone was at table, eating, drinking, passing bowls and platters two and fro. There was usual talk of the marketplace gossip and what was left of the tales about the Governor’s Ball. Mrs Bellamy repeatedly left the table to see to Father Claireborne and his guest upstairs. Ariane sat by and ate in silence. She listened and answered if she was asked a question, but was otherwise quiet, until even John noticed and asked if she was under the weather. ‘No, she was clumsy and fell on her way back from the market,’ Mrs. Bellamy explained. Her look showed clearly what she thought of that. Ariane looked to her plate.

‘Does your arm still hurt?’ Tenny asked, looking concerned. Tenny was the woman who came to help with the washing. Her arms were dark as oakwood and strong, her hands large and leathery like a man’s. She was a jolly woman, short, almost squat, with a loud laugh. She often stayed longer than she first promised, unwilling, Ariane felt, to go back to small room she called her home down towards Port Augustine’s ‘disreputable corner’ as Mrs Bellamy called it. Ariane often wanted to ask Father Claireborne if Tenny couldn’t move into the small room out back that wasn’t much more than a place of storage, hardly used. She did not know how to ask though, since Tenny did always talk so much, and Ariane knew Father Claireborne liked it quiet during the day, so he could read his books and write his sermons.

It was when Tenny asked that Ariane realized she was indeed rubbing her arm, the one that man-thing had turned so sharply it had hurt all the way to her head. Ariane folded her hands in her lap and shook her head, Mrs. Bellamy saying, ‘Don’t worry yourself, Tenny, it’s just a bruise and it will heal soon, won’t it my dear?’ she smiled, stroking Ariane’s cheek. Ariane nodded and finished her plate, asking if she could be excused right after. She left the table when her mother gave her leave, and did her best to leave the kitchen by the back door as unhurridly as she could.

Ariane stepped onto sanded path snaking across the lawn, and at first walked one way, then the other, before passing towards the gate, slowly, carefully, her eyes fixed on the green. flowers 5 She was not certain if she should go and see if the tomato and carrot were still there. Officer Turlington had said there was a dangerous criminal on the loose. The man-thing had looked feral, mad even, and he had told her, no, commanded her to keep still and all without words. Ariane finally reached the gate and lingered. From where she stood she could see nothing red or orange in the green grass, but it was rather tall, and who knew if they weren’tcarried away by some feisty bird or whatever else came by. But if she walked out now, would it not be foolish? God knew what would happen, and if she shouted no one would hear, not the way they were talking and laughing inside.

Ariane hesitated, but common sense won over curiosity in the end. She could not forget that feral look in those eyes, clear yes, neither blue nor brown nor grey nor black, but somehow colourless in the bright light. It was out there, somewhere, all grunts and growls, and it had turned her arm so. She would be foolish to underestimate what else it could do, feral as it was. And so very dirty.

Ariane finally walked back to the house. She would eat one of the pastries she knew her mother had made for Father Claireborne and his guest. Mrs Bellamy never minded if Ariane ate one as long as it really only was one. Walking around the house, Ariane saw that the side door stood ajar, the one used for deliveries, but that was not surprising, her mother was always complaining how everyone forgot to close it. Luckily, the larder was the door next to the kitchen, she would not have to face the others again. Ariane could still hear the talk and laughter inside, stepped to the larder, opened the door, and – Holy Mother of God.

There it was, again, as feral and dirty as before only standing now, stuffing its mouth with freshly baked bread and those parts of the chicken her mother had layed aside for tomorrow. The man-thing stopped the moment she opened the door. There was a moment or two without a heartbeat. Ariane did not know if to talk or scream. Right then, the door to the kitchen opened, Bert’s voice booming out. Ariane closed the door to the larder and made to walk out, nearly walking into Tenny who laughed, ‘There you are! Lend me a hand with the washing later on, yes? I can never hang those sheets on my own.’ Ariane just nodded and Tenny went out through the delivery door, John, Bert, Mel and Wesley following her right after, putting on their caps, Bert thanking Mrs. Bellamy loudly for his supper, it was as always ‘exquisite’. ‘You stop those lies, Bertram Mahoney!’ Mrs Bellamy shot back. ‘Ah, Mrs Bellamy, why can’t you accept an honest compliment?’ ‘Honest? Ha!’

This went on for too long. Ariane stood, listening, her heart racing, until finally, thankfully, John asked when they should return for tea, now that the weather looked like rain by evening. John and Bert liked to sit in the kitchen and drink cups of tea like gentlemen while it rained and stormed outside. They told wonderful stories then, stories of pirates and wild chases, sunken ships and hidden treasures, islands full of gold that only appeared at the full moon, and wells that were filled with gemstones. Together, John and Bert were storytellers fit to entertain any king’s court.It was why Ariane liked rainy days. Then she could just sit and listen to John and Bert tell their stories, her mother shaking her head at ‘all that nonsense you’re putting into the poor girl’s head’, though she never stopped them.

If John said it looked like rain, then it would rain, John was ‘an excellent predictor of weather’ as Father Claireborne said. Ariane had hardly seen the clouds while she was at market, but now that she thought if it, it had looked a little silvery while she was outside. Dogs could not smell in water, but they could smell in a house. What if they found the trail before it rained? What if the came all the way here? And if they asked her? Would they know she was lying? For she knew she should at least tell her mother, but first John and the others had to leave, and they did finally, all of them, with Ariane waiting in the hallway, between doors, not knowing what to do next.

One last look into the kitchen showed Ariane that her mother had suddenly disappeared. Where – ah, there, the quiet screech of a pump. Her mother was out back, fetching more water. Ariane stayed as she was, the kitchen door open, and her eyes fixed on the larder. Finally her mother returned, and Ariane summoned her silently, despairing with her ‘What is it? Why don’t you just tell me?’ before sighing and following Ariane’s silent plea and joining her. Body tense, hands trembling slightly, Ariane opened the larder door.

‘What is it?’ Mrs. Bellamy asked. ‘Ariane, what is the matter, why show me the larder in this silly way, you know – ’

Mrs Bellamy stopped and stepped in, walking to one of the shelves.

‘Those rascals! If I ever catch them, if I ever see them with my own eyes, may God forgive me, but they will get such a thrashing as they’ve never seen – !’

Mrs. Bellamy could hardly contain her anger. The third roast chicken had disappeared. Ariane stepped in with her mother and saw Mrs. Bellamy smile at her grimly.

‘Well, it’s good you saw it, your eyes have not gotten bad,’ she said. ‘I was already getting worried, it’s not like you to trip on the Hunting Trail.’
‘Look,’ Ariane said instead, pointing to the ever fastened larder window.

Turning, Mrs. Bellamy made a noise that sounded like a curse, something she only ever did when the food burnt in the oven.

‘To steal from God’s house is already – but to purposely break in! Have they no piety!’

Ariane did not answer. The glass was shattered, the window swung open at its hinges. The man-thing had not spirited itself away, she was not suffering from what Father Claireborne called ‘hallucinations’. Her mother was already climbing the stairs to the Father’s apartments when Ariane realised what this meant. Where was it now, the feral thing? She imagined it running into the green with a roast chicken. Well, at least it finally had something to eat.

Father Claireborne entered the larder, saw the destruction and shook his head. He looked out of the broken window and sighed, ‘I will have to have speak with their parents,’ which surprised Ariane who had always thought Father Claireborne was ignorant of the occasional thefts from their larder by the Holborns and Gellards, two families of many children and little means. Usually it was pastries and the boiled sweets Mrs Bellamy saw no sin in eating. As it seemed the Father was well aware of the occasional disappearance. He patted Mrs. Bellamy’s arm as if to calm her.

‘Don’t worry Mrs. Bellamy, I will see to it. This has clearly gone too far.’And with that, both left the larder, Ariane following them silently. Closing the door, she wondered. Where had the man-thing gone? Was it still about the house? Was he in fact, just a room away? And if so, should she not tell her mother at least? Father Claireborne? But once told, they would call the officers and that would be the gallows for him. The thought alone made Ariane feel a murderess. So far she did not know of his transgressions. Yet maybe Father Claireborne knew something of what Officer Turlington had said. She really should say something. At least to warn them of the feral creature hiding around the house.

November 7, 2014

saving grace, 3

Ariane helped her mother set the table, dress the salad, and make sure the roast chicken and other delectables were as Father Claireborne liked them. Unlike other Englishmen, or so Mrs Bellamy said, Father Claireborne had a taste for good food and knew to give high praise when a meal was done well. Today the Father had a guest however, so Mrs Bellamy was agitated and curt with her commands. Once all the platters and bowls were brought up to Father Claireborne’s private office where the meal was to be taken, Mrs. Bellamy returned in calmer spirits, ready to feed the rest of the house.

John Mallory, the gardener, came in right then. He was tall and dark as night, with eyes so white they almost shone in his face. John took care they had enough potatoes, parsnips, pumpkins and cabbages in the garden, and saw to it that the lemons and oranges grew well. That way Mrs Bellamy could make her famous lemonade whenever she wished, and order ice in time for the wonderful sorbet she always made on Father Claireborne’s birthday.

Grey-haired Bertram Mahoney walked in after John, calling out ‘Hurry up lads, they’re not going to wait.’ Bert who liked to talk of his home in that faraway place, Ireland, where there was ‘real weather’ and rain fell sideways. His blue eyes grew dreamy then, as he sat back and puffed on his pipe, talking about The King’s Arms where it seemed men only went to drink and brawl and misbehave themselves. Mrs Bellamy did not approve of tales of The King’s Arms, which was one reason why Bert enjoyed telling them. He was always teasing Ariane’s mother like that, and Father Claireborne never stopped him, but then Bert and Father Claireborne had known each other for very many years. Once Father Claireborne was appointed at Port Augustine, Bert followed a year later, ‘ready to settle’ as he said. Since he was very good with wood and glass, he made sure the house and church remained in order, never mind if it was ‘an ungodly Protestant place’, Bert still prayed to the Holy Mother Mary.

Standing in the kitchen door, Bert called, ‘Come on, lads, what are you waiting for?’ again, and finally young Mel and Wesley came in, quietly, removing their caps just like John and Bert. They were five and six years younger than Ariane, and did everything Bert told them, learning all they could from the Irishman, and John as well, for ‘a man should know his way around the garden,’ as Father Claireborne said. Mel and Wesley’s past was one of those terrible histories you found so frequently on the islands. Bert had ‘bought them off a man in Antigua’ three years before, he had had to sail down on business. Bert never said more about Mel and Wesley, and the two boys hardly ever talked anyway. They were brothers, and stayed together at all times, sharing a room and a bed in the small house Bert called his own. Ariane had seen it herself when she once brought Bert a book Father Claireborne wanted him to have. She had asked Bert why the boys didn’t have their own beds and Bert shrugged, ‘They didn’t want them. Plain refused.’ Then he added, ‘I wager they don’t want to get separated again.’

From what Bert hinted on if he did talk about Antigua, there had been more brothers and sisters, and a mother, but Ariane still did not know what happened to them. Bert did not offer to tell, and she did not know how to ask. She knew of Antigua, she had heard the stories, she knew which islands were nightmares, which colonies further north were utter hell. She knew in whispers and tales told in secret, she knew in the bulletines Father Claireborne sometimes read and made him gloomy for a whole day. Now at nearly seventeen, the Mississippi had become a place of terror for Ariane, the delta synonymous to Hell, pockets of hell fire littered all across the Spanish Main, Antigua being one of them, so she did not know how to ask Bert about what happened there. It was enough to see how quiet the two boys were, standing together now, Mel with his eyes to the floor, and Wesley alert, watching everything carefully. Both would not say one word through the entire meal, but Ariane had come to accept it. They ate well at least, and Bert made sure they stayed healthy and clean. Ariane knew John and her mother made sure to know where they were at all times, and Father Claireborne took care they learnt their alphabet and their sums. It was, Ariane felt, the best one could do after all that happened to them.

They were free now though, at least they were given that mercy. They were now equal to all other Freemen in Port Augustine. Like Father Claireborne, Bert was a staunch believer that no man should own another, though where Father Claireborne saw such ownership as a deep sin against the Lord on High, Bert was far less religious. As he told Ariane once, ‘No one on this blessed earth owns anything, lass. We just stay for a while and then move on. Anyone trying to tell you anything else and I swear on me own mother’s grave they’re trying to sell you something. Don’t ever trust a word they say.’ Bert never said who ‘they’ were, but from how Bert always talked about them, ‘they’ sounded very powerful and very dangerous. He did give Mel and Wesley a last name though, Callaghan. Apparently it would throw a man Bert knew into all kinds of torment to know that ‘two little Negroes were carrying his perfect name.’ Every time Bert said that, he grinned wide right after and sighed satisfied as if he accomplished something.

John, Bert, Mel and Wesley greeted Ariane and Mrs Bellamy with silent nods before they sat down at the large kitchen table, Bert saying happily, ‘That smells wonderful, Mrs Bellamy, what’ll you surprise us with today.’ Mrs Bellamy told Bert to stop trying to flatter her with such insincerity, and their usual banter began. John sat by in silence and listened with a faint smile, while Ariane poured out water for Mel and Wesley, Mel who was tracing the grain of the heavy oak table. It was a massive thing where everyone reconvened in the evenings, even Father Claireborne, who said it made little sense to sit in solitude up in his office when there was such merriment and joy in the kitchen.

If John was in the proper mood, he would take out his guitar, a beautiful instrument he was gifted by his former Master’s wife when he became a Freeman. She was a duke’s daughter who knew how to play by a Spanish artisan at her father’s court, and so had taught John since he was a child. Once anyone heard John play, they knew why the high lady took such time to teach him. Ariane could spend whole evenings just listening to John play on his guitar. When she closed her eyes, it was as if an angel was playing, yet it was John, John who was as dark as night, John Mallory who was actually Juan de Majorca, ‘John from the large island’ as he once explained, John Mallory whose English still had that Spanish accent, which was why he never spoke when Officer Turlington was near. John who was dark as night and played like an angel sent down from on High to make them remember that there really was Someone watching.

They would sing the songs they knew when John began to play, Ariane showing her skill and Mrs Bellamy sometimes singing the beautiful French ones she remembered, never mind how melancholy they were. Father Claireborne himself knew quite a few, joyous songs of praise, and slow, sombre songs of longing, not to mention Bert who had many more songs than he was allowed to sing by Father Claireborne and Mrs Bellamy. They were apparently not for children’s ears, never mind how Bert started grinning.

It was such things as these that made Father Claireborne very unlike other Fathers Ariane had heard of and knew. Ariane always felt that his house was truly a house of God, for in it all souls present, man, woman and child, were at peace. There was joy, there was laughter, there was song, and they all had good clothes to wear and enough food to eat. It was, Ariane knew, the best of fortune to know such a house as one’s home, and to have it’s master be such a man as Father Claireborne. The Father was a stout man with dark hair still thick and full about his head, he had a hearty laugh and a handsome smile, though he could look like God himself come down to take furious vengeance when he was thunderous, but that did not happen often. Mostly when someone scavenged his herb garden again where he was still trying his hand at strawberries.

Ariane liked Father Claireborne very well, as did everyone in Port Augustine, and it was good that he would still have many years to pray for the parish, for despite the grey at his temples, Father Claireborne was hardly past forty. It was he who had taken Ariane’s mother out of the desperate situation of widowhood when Ariane was but two years, and installed her as his cook when he was appointed to Port Augustine. Some thought his choice immoral if not outright sacrilegious, but since Mrs. Bellamy was a widow and had shown herself to be good Christian woman with an unshakable Christian faith, those who would talk evil soon hushed their mouths. Now no one in the small town questioned that the holy man and his cook lived under the same roof, with John, Bert, Mel and Wesley as their constant helpers.

November 7, 2014November 24, 2014

saving grace, 2

tomato (1) Neither Ariane nor Katie moved until the group of men was well out of sight and sound. They did not release each other’s hands until Ariane saw she dropped one of the tomatoes. She whispered ‘Oh no’, she knew how much her mother disliked wasting food, and now the red fruit lay bruised on the gravelly ground. She crouched down quickly to pick it up, ants could be quick on the Hunting Trail.

As she bent down to pick the fallen fruit, Ariane gazed into the surrounding greenery in passing and saw two eyes. They were looking back at her. Ariane stopped, startled. She opened her mouth to speak, but the eyes became a face with a finger pressed against its lips. The eyes did not ask, they commanded silence. The insistence was so clear, it was equal to Father Clairborne’s piercing looks when he turned to the whisperers in the pews. Ariane did as she was told. She picked up the fallen tomato and straightened, Katie was already tugging on her arm to walk on. Ariane couldn’t help a last look over her shoulder as they walked. ‘What is it?’ Katie asked impatiently. ‘Are they coming back?’ Ariane shook her head, ‘No, I was just making sure I didn’t lose more, you know how Mama always counts’. Katie smiled ruefully, she knew of Mrs Bellamy’s strictness. ‘We should go, Ria,’ she said, tugging at Ariane to hurry. ‘Officer Turlington looked very serious.’ Ariane looked into the greenery once more. There was nothing. She must have seen wrong.

The two girls walked on, quicker than before, even running a little, their smooth calves kicking up the muslin of their white skirts, their young sandal-clad feet quick on the bright trail. They finally reached the chaplain’s house and the pathway to the Freeman’s farm where their ways had to part. Katie did not stop to say good-bye, she said a quick ‘Please tell Father Clairborne I’ll come tomorrow!’ and ran. In a matter of heartbeats, Katie was out of sight, beyond the wooden gate of the Freeman’s farm. Ariane turned to her own destination, her heart still quick in its beat. She must have seen wrong.

There was a small copse she had to pass before she reached the compound’s back gate, only a few feet to walk, but right then those twenty-five steps seemed like miles and miles, lined with greenery on one side as they were, and a picket fence on the other. It was a tall fence, painted white by her own and Father Clairborne’s hands. The Father never shied from using his hands, he saw such work as honouring the Lord on High for giving him such strength and health for so long. The picket fence was a bright contrast to the dark gloom on the other side of the small path, the wildness and green seemingly constrained by an invisible wall from encroaching further.

Ariane hurried to the gate, still holding the broken tomato in her hand, the cord of her woven bag, heavy with fresh vegetables, cutting into her shoulder. Seven, ten, twelve… Ariane began to feel relief, she was about to reach the latch when, with horrible suddenness, something jumped out of the green, grabbed her wrist – and something burst with wetness in her hand. There was no time to scream, her heart skipped several beats. Staring, transfixed, Ariane tried to understand. The wildest, dirtiest man she had ever seen was on his knees before her, eating the fallen tomato out of her hand, not even waiting to release it from her grip, but eating past her fingers like an animal until that was not enough and he pried her fingers open and ate on until the entire fruit is gone.

Ariane just watched, too shocked to move, to even try to stop what was happening. She felt the eerie tickling sensation she always had when one of the Freeman’s dogs licked her hand like her mother detested. She could not laugh now, however. Nor could she remove her hand when she had enough, for she did try, yet every tug was met with a growl or grunt of some kind, the grip on her wrist unrelenting. In those moments of shocked silence, the creature before her seemed more thing than man to Ariane, more beast than human. He had not seen water for days, if not weeks, and smelled accordingly. What was once a shirt was now rags, the pantaloons torn ragged things ripped at the knees showing scarred and bare feet, horribly dirty. She could not see much of the face, what she could see was just dirt and grime, but there was hair, a whole thatch of it, much like a crow’s nest, though crusted with dirt and littered with twigs and leaves and other things she did not care to inspect further.

All this took place in what felt like three claps of a hand. The tomato was eaten in rapid speed and the thing, the man, lunged for her bag full of vegetables. Ariane turned it away, ‘No, you can’t have that,’ and was fixed with feral eyes, bloodshot and wild, almost mad, and for a moment Ariane was certain the thing would bite her. Instead, it grabbed the bag in lightning speed, yanking it off Ariane’s shoulder violently, but Ariane refused to let it go, she could not return home with nothing. There were heartbeats of confusion, and suddenly her arm was grabbed and wrenched behind her back so painfully, Ariane let everything go in a sharp cry of pain. ‘Ariane! Viens!’ came suddenly, blessedly close, from the garden. ‘Don’t idle, child, the Master will not wait all day for his dinner!’

In flash Ariane’s arm was freed. There was movement, quick, and a rustle of greenery. Ariane turned around and saw that the small path was empty of mad, violent creatures, her bag and half its contents scattered on the dusty ground. Right then Mrs. Bellamy opened the gate, holding a carving knife and a plucked chicken. She stood large and matronly at the picket fence, looking sternly at her daughter, ‘Ariane, what is this? Why are the vegetables on the ground?’ ‘I – fell,’ was all Ariane could say and hastily picked up everything, though she was careful to leave one tomato and a carrot, gingerly pushing both into the greenery with her heel. Then she quickly followed her mother past the gate and into the safety of the compound, her breath finally returning when she heard the latch click into place.

Ariane could hardly follow her duties. Cutting and stirring, helping her mother prepare Father Claireborne’s roast chicken dinner, Ariane could only think of the thing-man that was in the green, and what Officer Turlington said, that there was a dangerous criminal on the loose. She thought of how she struggled with the thing, and how she could have been murdered if he was truly that dangerous. It did look mad. Or rather, like someone lost in the forests for so long he knew nothing of language or civilization. Father Clairborne had spoken of such people, poor souls so lost to mankind, they hardly found their way back again once returned to safety. She had only heard grunts and growls from the thing. Standing at the kitchen window as she was, cleaning carrots and cutting tomatoes, Ariane could not help look out towards the herb garden, the picket fence, the gate. She tried to see if anything moved there, but there was nothing, just the usual view, a broad green lawn with a sanded pathway curving through it like a smooth river, and Father Claireborne’s herb garden at the far end, with the orange and lemon trees at the back.

It was a quiet compound, peaceful, it was what Ariane knew as her home. And yet, looking out, it no longer exuded peace but was simply the last frontier to the mystery and danger beyond. It is out there, the man-thing, and who knew, maybe Officer Turlington and those dangerous dogs and rifled men already found him. Ariane felt a tinge of pity, a soft prick of sadness beneath her ribs. She knew what happened when escaped convicts were captured. They were hung at the gallows in less than a week. She continued cutting the cucumbers and tomatoes her mother wanted for the salad Father Clairborne called ‘Greek’, he had known a man from Athens in his seminar, a man whose sister apparently made miracles with fresh foods. Father Clairborne’s voice always acquired a particular kind of softness when he spoke of his Greek friend’s sister. Ariane often wondered if her mother was aware of this change when the Father talked of that particular lady. It did not change the fact that beyond the picket fence, that creature was in the green. He has nothing to eat. Ariane could still feel the heat and wetness of his hungry mouth, the sharpness of those feral teeth as he ate the tomato right out of her hand.

How hungry must one be to not even take it, but eat it right out of her hand? Ariane stopped cutting cucumbers and looked at her hand, dark as the caramel her mother made for the special dinners, and light as toffeed cream on the other, in the rainy season almost white. Ariane had always wondered why this was so, what trick of nature and providence it was that gave her such promising hands on one side and then diverted it all with the back. On the other hand, Father Claireborne often said the Lord made all by design, and since the Lord was all Wisdom and Benevolence, He had to have put some thinking into it, and so Ariane let it be. Yet she could not get rid of the sensation of that man-thing eating out of her hand, so hungry like a starved dog who was ready to bite her if she did not release her bag. Did he get the tomato, the carrot? Did he see them, pick them, before some bird or insect found them? Ants were everywhere on the Hunting Trail, one had to be careful. Ariane looked out, but there was nothing to be seen except the usual peaceful garden, her mother working busily behind her, asking her to hurry, Master had guests waiting, one of the magistrates had come to talk about some business again.

November 6, 2014May 16, 2020

saving grace, 1

Port Augustine
1795, The Spanish Main

The sea was so clear it was breathtaking to see the waves break on the silt. Along the shores of a small town, not far from a large port, there was a church with a spire, a marketplace and five grand houses, a sixth slowly falling into disrepair. The waters beyond the spotless shores were famous for the pirates they hid, turning the night air into dark, star-speckled blackness thick with mystery. Even on quiet days, there remained that subtle knowledge: the possibility of immense treasure buried in hidden caves, in deep unknown pits, or held down by an anchor deep in the sea – waiting to be found. And thus the pirates came and never left again. They searched, and searched, and torched and burned and did worse where they wished to find, yet few ever found what they were certain to obtain, feeding the gallows with more and more bodies to hang. For the law was never far, sailing the coasts, lying low in bays, with men as cunning as they came, commanding soldiers who stood red and bayoneted at every gate and office door, with precise orders to shoot first and ask later, one could never know what the mothers’ sons were after next.

In all this, there was Ariane Bellamy. She was both daughter and maid, daughter to the chaplain’s cook, Mrs. Bellamy, who hailed from that wild place of bloodied freedom, Haiti, where she lost a husband and a son, yet spoke French as her native tongue. As Mrs Bellamy’s daughter, Ariane was the maid to the holy man of Port Augustine, a small town that sat snug in an open bay, facing out towards the depths of the Spanish Main. Arianne Bellamy was not like the other girls descendant from Freemen, for she had the protection of the chaplain, a broad knowledge of Scripture and an undying faith in the benevolence of the Supreme bestowed on every creature. By Mrs. Bellamy’s insistence and the instruction of the chaplain everyone called Father Claireborne, Ariane knew how to read and write, add sums, play the piano and sing very well. Were it not for the colour of her skin, one would have thought Ariane Bellamy a right little lady.

Like her mother, Ariane had power curled tight in her young limbs, and her face was often considered ‘too pretty for her own good’. She had a natural grace and though good-natured maybe ‘a little too clever’ as some of the market women said. But, Ariane was never seen without her best friend Catherine ‘Katie’ Freeman who was one child of many to the neighbouring Freeman’s farm, and so sensible girl. It was understood that as long as Katie was there, Ariane’s ‘wilder ways’ would remain in their adequate boundaries.

It was a hot day, the heat dripping with coastal humidity. Ariane and Katie, hardly disturbed by this, were carrying back shopping from the market, Ariane with a woven bag and Katie a basket, both wearing white muslin dresses. Ariane juggled two tomatoes every now and then while ambling along with Katie. The path they walk along was a walking trail away from the usual road, well known by the inhabitants of Port Augustine and a very convenient shortcut. Almost everyone in the small town used it, and it was said that at dusk those lovers who wanted to meet were found there as well. It was a bright day, and both Ariane and Katie enjoyed its pleasantness, young women as they in fact were, beyond sixteen yet not quite seventeen, graceful in their simple muslin dresses, a stark white setting off the smooth, deep caramel of their limbs.

The latest talk of the town was the last Governor’s Ball, whose splendour spread across the country like wildfire. Ariane and Katie had been talking about nothing else since the gossip hit Port Augustine like a hurricane. No one could think of anything else as it seemed but the Governor’s Ball and what might have happened there. Ariane and Katie were discussing possibilities as they walked. They talked about what kind of dress they would wear if they were ever to be a lady invited to one of Governor’s Balls, something they knew would never happen, but there was such a thing as hope. They described to each other the tresses and crêpe, crinoline and swaths of cloth in the most vivid colours, the diamonds and necklaces, diadems and rings, both doing their best to outdo the other, talking in blissful earnest as the sun beat down on their curly heads.

A gunshot cut through the easy calm. The sound of dogs barking followed. These were not unknown sounds to the two girls, yet this time they were very close. Another gunshot and more shouting, and both Ariane and Katie stopped as they were, two more bullets ricocheting off tree trunks in loud zings. Presently, not far down the trail before them, a group of men emerged with a large noise from the green darkness surrounding the path, all of them armed with rifles and pistols, at least three with ferocious dogs on their leashes. The two girls moved together and searched each other’s hands, sensing the danger of the moment. The men did not look like the usual guards of Port Augustine, but harsher, fiercer and far more dangerous. Ariane and Katie stood stock still. Both sensed in the other an acute wish to disappear. They exhaled, audibly, when the group was followed by a man they recognised, Officer Turlington who frequented the chapel often to converse with Father Claireborne.

Hayworth Turlington, lieutenant of the standing guard and currently hot and angry, with a pistol whose gun powder was running out, damn the thing, Hawyorth Turlington, clambered out of the dark green into the light,and stopped. He looked again. The Clairborne girls were standing a few yards away, staring at him. What the devil were the daft things doing here, so far from – he saw the bag and basket full of food stuffs they were carrying and understood. The local farmers probably set up their stalls again, and the trail was a shortcut to the market place. They were dutiful girls, the Father had raised them well, and they would not want to waste time. Hayworth Turlington as yet did not know how they were connected to the holy man, but he always saw them at Father Clairborne’s, going about their business of which he knew little. They stood together now, very quietly, like young apparitions on the hidden trail, their eyes wide and wary. Maybe they had seen something. Even so, he would have to get them to the Father quickly, Clairborne would never forgive him if something happened to them.

Officer Turlington approached Ariane and Katie quickly, asking them in a curt, military manner if they had seen anything unusual while walking the Hunting Trail. Both girls shook their heads. Did they see anyone foreign maybe? Again the girls shook their heads, still clutching their hands, standing close. Seeing that the two could give him no information, Officer Turlington ordered them to rush home swiftly, there was a dangerous criminal in these parts, and he did not want them out of doors alone, Father Clairborne would never forgive him if anything happened. He did not say what that anything might be. Ariane and Katie nodded and said ‘Yes sir,’ which satisfied the officer by his ‘Very well. Run along now.’ He turned abruptly and ordered the group of men to proceed further into the green, ‘He’s probably looking for his mates, so you know what that means! Onwards!’ And the troop disappeared as one into the trees and undergrowth, guns and dogs and all, Officer Turlington’s regimentals flashing red once, and then he too was gone.