north. She raised Cape Fear, skirted the outer banks of Raleigh Bay, navigated the sound and dropped anchor at New Holland.
Starved for diversion after the monotony of sea travel, Flavia hung at the railing with Mab, watching commerce unfold in the small port. Ton after ton of iron goods and farm tools were hauled down the plank. Countless tons of pig iron and hogsheads of tobacco were trundled up into the ship.
Again, agents clamored to buy skilled bondslaves. Any cooper, shoemaker, farmer, cabinetmaker, blacksmith or school teacher found himself courted. Often, a bondman negotiated his own indenture, selecting among several would-be masters. It was not so for the young, the old, the sick or the female. Flavia shivered inwardly, afraid to guess what her own fate might be. She’d seen enough to hope for service on a large plantation. There, a servant would not be overworked. Poorer masters who owned only a farm or a small business were a different matter. They exhibited a pinched, niggardly attitude as they shopped for flesh aboard the Schilaack. Flavia sensed they’d demand more than their money’s worth, working their few hard-pressed servants from dawn until the extinguishing of night candles. Seven years in their employ and she would emerge a worn woman.
With the ranks of the indentured reduced, the Schilaack made for the strait of Cape Henry and Cape Charles. On the first day of February she dropped anchor at the port of Norfolk.
Here commerce began in earnest. Shipping agents bargained for the cargo of Dutch lace, English wools, satins. Delft tiles, china, pewter and silver were sold into the keeping of agents. Hogsheads of tobacco were rolled aboard, ton after ton of them until Flavia feared the very ship must sink.
The remaining skilled bondmen were snapped up and plantation agents lost interest in the ship. Flavia was dismayed. Now she would fall into the hands of an independent. She could only hope her master would be humane. When she voiced this hope to Mab, Mab hooted.
“Pish!” she said, having reluctantly abandoned pithier expressions under Flavia’s tutelage. “Good master? They’s no such thing! If y’ master wants to bed you, Jane, he’ll bed you. ‘Twon’t bite his conscience no more’n a flea biting a dog. Come Sabbath, he’ll march hisself to meeting, all pridey and proper, like he never had him a lusty notion in his life.”
Flavia was stunned speechless. In her most severe imaginings of servitude in America, her mind had not gone to that.
Quickly, more to assure herself than Mab, she blurted, “It’s against English law to abuse a bondservant.”
Mab gave a hard laugh.
“That it is, luv. And when y’ master comes pussyfootin’ round y’ bed, you be sure and tell him so.”
Mab’s inference was sobering. Flavia knew it couldn’t be true. Still she found herself warily judging the flesh shoppers. If an eye flickered with the slightest hint of lust or cruelty, Flavia resorted to the ruse Mab taught her. She’d whip out a kerchief that she and Mab had stained with red paint borrowed from a cabinetmaker’s stain box. She’d cough violently into the kerchief. The would-be master’s eyes would bulge with horror. He’d hustle away at once. He had no intention of purchasing the dread lung disease, no matter how prettily it was packaged.
At Norfolk Flavia saw her first American woman. She was a Mistress Sewell and she came aboard on the arm of her husband who was shopping for a stout Dutch drudge, one skilled in tending dairy cows. Flavia ached with longing as she drank in the woman’s smart ensemble. She wore thick plush green velvet. Jacket and skirts were topped by a cape trimmed with ermine tails. Her hands were gloved in soft black kid leather and diamond earbobs flashed in the winter sunlight. A handsome hat and muff of fox far rippled in the chill breeze.
Flavia sighed. She’d forgotten how wonderful it felt to wear beautiful clothes, to wear warm clothes.
Starved for diversion after the monotony of sea travel, Flavia hung at the railing with Mab, watching commerce unfold in the small port. Ton after ton of iron goods and farm tools were hauled down the plank. Countless tons of pig iron and hogsheads of tobacco were trundled up into the ship.
Again, agents clamored to buy skilled bondslaves. Any cooper, shoemaker, farmer, cabinetmaker, blacksmith or school teacher found himself courted. Often, a bondman negotiated his own indenture, selecting among several would-be masters. It was not so for the young, the old, the sick or the female. Flavia shivered inwardly, afraid to guess what her own fate might be. She’d seen enough to hope for service on a large plantation. There, a servant would not be overworked. Poorer masters who owned only a farm or a small business were a different matter. They exhibited a pinched, niggardly attitude as they shopped for flesh aboard the Schilaack. Flavia sensed they’d demand more than their money’s worth, working their few hard-pressed servants from dawn until the extinguishing of night candles. Seven years in their employ and she would emerge a worn woman.
With the ranks of the indentured reduced, the Schilaack made for the strait of Cape Henry and Cape Charles. On the first day of February she dropped anchor at the port of Norfolk.
Here commerce began in earnest. Shipping agents bargained for the cargo of Dutch lace, English wools, satins. Delft tiles, china, pewter and silver were sold into the keeping of agents. Hogsheads of tobacco were rolled aboard, ton after ton of them until Flavia feared the very ship must sink.
The remaining skilled bondmen were snapped up and plantation agents lost interest in the ship. Flavia was dismayed. Now she would fall into the hands of an independent. She could only hope her master would be humane. When she voiced this hope to Mab, Mab hooted.
“Pish!” she said, having reluctantly abandoned pithier expressions under Flavia’s tutelage. “Good master? They’s no such thing! If y’ master wants to bed you, Jane, he’ll bed you. ‘Twon’t bite his conscience no more’n a flea biting a dog. Come Sabbath, he’ll march hisself to meeting, all pridey and proper, like he never had him a lusty notion in his life.”
Flavia was stunned speechless. In her most severe imaginings of servitude in America, her mind had not gone to that.
Quickly, more to assure herself than Mab, she blurted, “It’s against English law to abuse a bondservant.”
Mab gave a hard laugh.
“That it is, luv. And when y’ master comes pussyfootin’ round y’ bed, you be sure and tell him so.”
Mab’s inference was sobering. Flavia knew it couldn’t be true. Still she found herself warily judging the flesh shoppers. If an eye flickered with the slightest hint of lust or cruelty, Flavia resorted to the ruse Mab taught her. She’d whip out a kerchief that she and Mab had stained with red paint borrowed from a cabinetmaker’s stain box. She’d cough violently into the kerchief. The would-be master’s eyes would bulge with horror. He’d hustle away at once. He had no intention of purchasing the dread lung disease, no matter how prettily it was packaged.
At Norfolk Flavia saw her first American woman. She was a Mistress Sewell and she came aboard on the arm of her husband who was shopping for a stout Dutch drudge, one skilled in tending dairy cows. Flavia ached with longing as she drank in the woman’s smart ensemble. She wore thick plush green velvet. Jacket and skirts were topped by a cape trimmed with ermine tails. Her hands were gloved in soft black kid leather and diamond earbobs flashed in the winter sunlight. A handsome hat and muff of fox far rippled in the chill breeze.
Flavia sighed. She’d forgotten how wonderful it felt to wear beautiful clothes, to wear warm clothes.
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