Читать книгу Pirate Latitudes - Michael Crichton, Michael Crichton - Страница 10

ANNE SHARPE RELAXED in the warm water of the bathtub, and listened to the prattle of the enormous black woman who bustled around the room. Anne could hardly understand a word the woman was saying, although she seemed to be speaking English; her lilting rhythms and odd pronunciations were utterly strange. The black woman was saying something about what a kind man Governor Almont was. Anne Sharpe had no concern about Governor Almont’s kindness. She had learned at an early age how to deal with men.

She closed her eyes, and the singsong speech of the black woman was replaced in her mind by the tolling of church bells. She had come to hate that monotonous, ceaseless sound, in London.

Anne was the youngest of three children, the daughter of a retired seaman turned sailmaker in Wapping. When the plague broke out near Christmastime, her two older brothers had taken work as watchmen. Their jobs were to stand at the doors of infected houses and see that the inhabitants inside did not leave the residence for any reason. Anne herself worked as a sick-nurse for several wealthy families.

With the passing weeks, the horrors she had seen became merged in her memory. The church bells rang day and night. The cemeteries everywhere became overfilled; soon there were no more individual graves, but the bodies were dumped by the score into deep trenches, and hastily covered over with white lime powder and earth. The deadcarts, piled high with bodies, were hauled through the streets; the sextons paused before each dwelling to call out, “Bring out your dead.” The smell of corrupted air was everywhere.

So was the fear. She remembered seeing a man fall dead in the street, his fat purse by his side, clinking with money. Crowds passed by the corpse, but none would dare to pick up the purse. Later the body was carted away, but still the purse remained, untouched.

At all the markets, the grocers and butchers kept bowls of vinegar by their wares. Shoppers dropped coins into the vinegar; no coin was ever passed hand to hand. Everyone made an effort to pay with exact change.

Amulets, trinkets, potions, and spells were in brisk demand. Anne herself bought a locket that contained some foul-smelling herb, but which was said to ward off the plague. She wore it always.

And still the deaths continued. Her eldest brother came down with the plague. One day she saw him in the street; his neck was swollen with large lumps and his gums were bleeding. She never saw him again.

Her other brother suffered a common fate for watchmen. While guarding a house one night, the inhabitants locked inside became crazed by the dementia of the disease. They broke out and killed her brother with a pistol-ball in the course of their escape. She only heard of this; she never saw him.

Finally, Anne, too, was locked in a house belonging to the family of a Mr. Sewell. She was serving as nurse to the elderly Mrs. Sewell—mother of the owner of the house—when Mr. Sewell came down with the swellings. The house was quarantined. Anne tended to the sick as best she could. One after another, the family died. The bodies were given over to the dead-carts. At last, she was alone in the house, and, by some miracle, still in good health.

It was then that she stole some articles of gold and the few coins she could find, and made her escape from the second-story window, slipping out over the rooftops of London at night. A constable caught her the next morning, demanding to know where a young girl had found so much gold. He took the gold, and clapped her in Bridewell prison.

There she languished for some weeks, until Lord Ambritton, a public-spirited gentleman, made a tour of the prison and caught sight of her. Anne had long since learned that gentlemen found her aspect agreeable. Lord Ambritton was no exception. He caused her to be put in his coach, and after some dalliance of the sort he liked, promised her she would be sent to the New World.

Soon enough she was in Plymouth, and then aboard the Godspeed. During the journey, Captain Morton, being a young and vigorous man, had taken a fancy to her, and because in the privacy of his cabin he gave her fresh meats and other delicacies, she was well pleased to make his acquaintance, which she did almost every night.

Now she was here, in this new place, where everything was strange and unfamiliar. But she had no fear, for she was certain that the governor liked her, as the other gentlemen had liked her and taken care of her.

Her bath finished, she was dressed in a dyed woolen dress and a cotton blouse. It was the finest clothing she had worn in more than three months, and it gave her a moment of pleasure to feel the fabric against her skin. The black woman opened the door and motioned for her to follow.

“Where are we going?”

“To the governor.”

She was led down a large, wide hallway. The floors were wooden but uneven. She found it strange that a man so important as the governor should live in such a rough house. Many ordinary gentlemen in London had houses more finely built than this.

The black woman knocked on a door, and a leering Scotsman opened it. Anne saw a bedchamber inside; the governor in a nightshirt was standing by the bed, yawning. The Scotsman nodded for her to enter the room.

“Ah,” the governor said. “Mistress Sharpe. I must say, your appearance is considerably improved by your ablutions.”

She did not understand exactly what he was talking about, but if he was pleased then so was she. She curtseyed as she had been taught by her mother.

“Richards, you may leave us.”

The Scotsman nodded, and closed the door. She was alone with the governor. She watched his eyes.

“Don’t be frightened, my dear,” he said in a kindly voice. “There is nothing to fear. Come over here by the window, Anne, where the light is good.”

She did as she was told.

He stared at her in silence for some moments. Finally, he said, “You know at your trial you were accused of witchcraft.”

“Yes, sir. But it is not true, sir.”

“I’m quite sure it is not, Anne. But it was said that you bear the stigmata of a pact with the devil.”

“I swear, sir,” she said, feeling agitation for the first time. “I have nothing to do with the devil, sir.”

“I believe you, Anne,” he said, smiling at her. “But it is my duty to verify the absence of stigmata.”

“I swear to you, sir.”

“I believe you,” he said. “But you must take off your clothes.”

“Now, sir?”

“Yes, now.”

She looked around the room a little doubtfully.

“You can put your clothes on the bed, Anne.”

“Yes, sir.”

He watched her as she undressed. She noticed what happened to his eyes. She was no longer afraid. The air was warm; she was comfortable without her clothing.

“You are a beautiful child, Anne.”

“Thank you, sir.”

She stood, naked, and he moved closer to her. He paused to put his spectacles on, and then he looked at her shoulders.

“Turn around slowly.”

She turned for him. He peered at her flesh. “Raise your arms over your head.”

She raised her arms. He peered at each armpit.

“The stigmata is normally under the arms or on the breast,” he said. “Or on the pudenda.” He smiled at her. “You don’t know what I am talking about, do you?”

She shook her head.

“Lie on the bed, Anne.”

She lay on the bed.

“We will now complete the examination,” he said seriously, and then his fingers were in her hair, and he was peering at her skin with his nose just a few inches from her quim, and even though she feared insulting him she found it funny—it tickled—and she began to laugh.

He stared angrily at her for a moment, and then he laughed, too, and then he began throwing off his nightshirt. He took her with his spectacles still on his face; she felt the wire frames pressing against her ear. She allowed him to have his way with her. It did not last long, and afterward, he seemed pleased, and so she was also pleased.

AS THEY LAY together in the bed, he asked her about her life, and her experiences in London, and the voyage to Jamaica. She described for him how most of the women amused themselves with each other, or with members of the crew, but she said that she did not—which wasn’t exactly true, but she had only been with Captain Morton, so it was very nearly true. And then she told about the storm that had happened, just as they sighted land in the Indies. And how the storm had buffeted them for two days.

She could tell that Governor Almont was not paying much attention to her story. His eyes had that funny look in them again. She continued to talk, anyway. She told about how the day after the storm had been clear, and they had sighted land with a harbor and a fortress, and a large Spanish ship in the harbor. And how Captain Morton was very worried about being attacked by the Spanish warship, which had certainly seen the merchantman. But the Spanish ship never came out of the harbor.

“What?” Governor Almont said, almost shrieking. He leapt out of bed.

“What’s wrong?”

“A Spanish warship saw you and didn’t attack?”

“No, sir,” she said. “We were much relieved, sir.”

“Relieved?” Almont cried. He could not believe his ears. “You were relieved? God in Heaven: how long ago did this happen?”

She shrugged. “Three or four days past.”

“And it was a harbor with a fortress, you say?”

“Yes.”

“On which side was the fortress?”

She was confused. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” Almont said, throwing on his clothes in haste, “as you looked at the island and the harbor, was this fortress to the right of the harbor, or the left?”

“To this side,” she said, pointing with her right arm.

“And the island had a tall peak? A very green island, very small?”

“Yes, that’s the very one, sir.”

“God’s blood,” Almont said. “Richards! Richards! Get Hunter!”

And the governor dashed from the room, leaving her lying there, naked on the bed. Certain that she had displeased him, Anne began to cry.