Chapter 1
1821 â Ajaccio, Corsica
The pale blue, white-capped mountains rose in jagged layers like sharkâs teeth straight out of the Mediterranean. I walked the narrow, steep streets along the waterfrontâs dockside market, not far from the brothel where I lived with my mother. I strained my ears to hear the distinctive sounds of the Corsican language, but only sweet French poured around me. Ajaccio, with its deep harbor, pastel-painted buildings and connection to Napoleon, was Corsicaâs gateway to the French mainland, a haven for day-trippers from Nice and Marseille.
I could smell rotting fish, the stench of rum barrels and unwashed bodies. I could also smell myself, because it had been quite a while since I had a bath. I didnât bathe much, the dirt kept me from looking like a woman.
It was hot, and I was dressed like a boy because my mother has always dressed me that way to protect my chastity. The linen wrapped around my chest constricted my breathing and made my breasts hurt. I wore pants cut off at the knee, a loose linen shirt, and a battered tri-corn pulled down low over my shoulder length hair, which was yanked back and tied with a piece of leather. My boots were too small for my big feet, and I could feel them chafe my ankles and toes through my coarse woolen socks.
I didnât mind dressing this way; it was something I had done my entire life. Boys had more freedom and they rarely were raped in the street, unless it was by some drunk who had a fancy for young boys. Iâve had to run like hell from a few of these unnatural men, but I was convinced that being a woman would be far worse.
I lived with my mother in one of the brothel-opium hells frequented by naval men and smugglers. I have blue eyes and a pretty face, but I am very tall, taller by half a head than most men are, and strongly built like my daddy, or so my mom told me. He was a handsome fair-haired man, too pretty for words. I inherited his wide shoulders, slim hips, and his easy smile. I also inherited his temperament. Mom said that I was his spit and image.
My mother, Madeline Culbert, was a prostitute and an opium addict. She used to be one of the most desired courtesans in France, or so she asserted. Sheâd had a host of lovers, even a Russian prince. That was until she had met my father and let him bring her to Ajaccio. She claimed to anyone who would listen that my father was a swashbuckler Irish man named Walter Black. He was killed in a horrific sea battle off the Corsican Mediterranean coast before I was even born. She has been in a state of decline ever since she got word of his demise and had fallen prey to the evils of the opium dens. If it werenât for my âuncleâ Roger, I would never have survived. He used to sail with my father as his quartermaster, and was the only person who knew my true identity. I had so far been able to escape the life of prostitution because of the efforts Roger had made in order to hide my identity.
But now, I had few choices left. My mom had contracted syphilis years before and the end was near. Either I remained a boy and signed on with one of the slave smuggling ships, or I became a doxy like my mom and likely suffer her fate. I sure as hell didnât want to lie with hundreds of ugly, rutting men only to shrivel up and die like my mother.
I needed some gold so that I could purchase a sword and a better fitting pair of boots. Real boots up to the knee, made by a cobbler and not bought from a rag picker, or taken from a drunken sailor. And Roger had already agreed to be my fencing instructor.
I was quite interested in the life of the sea, because there were no other occupations for women. Nevertheless, it was a hard choice to make, since I didnât believe in slavery and thatâs what made up most of the sea trade those days. I liked the idea of plundering and smuggling and being a citizen of the wind and the sea, but I felt too much for the plight of
1821 â Ajaccio, Corsica
The pale blue, white-capped mountains rose in jagged layers like sharkâs teeth straight out of the Mediterranean. I walked the narrow, steep streets along the waterfrontâs dockside market, not far from the brothel where I lived with my mother. I strained my ears to hear the distinctive sounds of the Corsican language, but only sweet French poured around me. Ajaccio, with its deep harbor, pastel-painted buildings and connection to Napoleon, was Corsicaâs gateway to the French mainland, a haven for day-trippers from Nice and Marseille.
I could smell rotting fish, the stench of rum barrels and unwashed bodies. I could also smell myself, because it had been quite a while since I had a bath. I didnât bathe much, the dirt kept me from looking like a woman.
It was hot, and I was dressed like a boy because my mother has always dressed me that way to protect my chastity. The linen wrapped around my chest constricted my breathing and made my breasts hurt. I wore pants cut off at the knee, a loose linen shirt, and a battered tri-corn pulled down low over my shoulder length hair, which was yanked back and tied with a piece of leather. My boots were too small for my big feet, and I could feel them chafe my ankles and toes through my coarse woolen socks.
I didnât mind dressing this way; it was something I had done my entire life. Boys had more freedom and they rarely were raped in the street, unless it was by some drunk who had a fancy for young boys. Iâve had to run like hell from a few of these unnatural men, but I was convinced that being a woman would be far worse.
I lived with my mother in one of the brothel-opium hells frequented by naval men and smugglers. I have blue eyes and a pretty face, but I am very tall, taller by half a head than most men are, and strongly built like my daddy, or so my mom told me. He was a handsome fair-haired man, too pretty for words. I inherited his wide shoulders, slim hips, and his easy smile. I also inherited his temperament. Mom said that I was his spit and image.
My mother, Madeline Culbert, was a prostitute and an opium addict. She used to be one of the most desired courtesans in France, or so she asserted. Sheâd had a host of lovers, even a Russian prince. That was until she had met my father and let him bring her to Ajaccio. She claimed to anyone who would listen that my father was a swashbuckler Irish man named Walter Black. He was killed in a horrific sea battle off the Corsican Mediterranean coast before I was even born. She has been in a state of decline ever since she got word of his demise and had fallen prey to the evils of the opium dens. If it werenât for my âuncleâ Roger, I would never have survived. He used to sail with my father as his quartermaster, and was the only person who knew my true identity. I had so far been able to escape the life of prostitution because of the efforts Roger had made in order to hide my identity.
But now, I had few choices left. My mom had contracted syphilis years before and the end was near. Either I remained a boy and signed on with one of the slave smuggling ships, or I became a doxy like my mom and likely suffer her fate. I sure as hell didnât want to lie with hundreds of ugly, rutting men only to shrivel up and die like my mother.
I needed some gold so that I could purchase a sword and a better fitting pair of boots. Real boots up to the knee, made by a cobbler and not bought from a rag picker, or taken from a drunken sailor. And Roger had already agreed to be my fencing instructor.
I was quite interested in the life of the sea, because there were no other occupations for women. Nevertheless, it was a hard choice to make, since I didnât believe in slavery and thatâs what made up most of the sea trade those days. I liked the idea of plundering and smuggling and being a citizen of the wind and the sea, but I felt too much for the plight of
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