The Comfort Shack by Mark Souza Page B

tensions before they came to a
head.
    “It was a cold winter day in 1759 at about
this time of year. The days were short and the nights long. A new
girl was brought in, a Native American girl named Libby, and that’s
when the trouble began...”
     
    Rebecca Smythe watched the wagon pass through
the gates. The buckboard carried supplies up from the harbor. She
scaled the wall after hearing the sentry's call of ‘ship ahoy’ to
watch the unloading through a spyglass. The Harbinger set anchor
late in the afternoon and wagons off-loaded her cargo, coming and
going well into the evening. Rebecca had ordered a hand mirror
months earlier and met each wagon as it arrived. Her initial
excitement festered into simmering frustration as load after load
arrived with no sign of her mirror.
    As the wagon drew nearer, she noticed it
carried a passenger, a woman. A woman arriving alone meant one
thing, a new whore for the Comfort Shack - as the men called
it. This one was different. She was an Indian. There had never been
an Indian whore at Fort Cavendish. And she was young and pretty.
Not just pretty, she was beautiful. Unlike the other prostitutes,
she wasn’t plump, pimple faced, lazy-eyed, or missing teeth. Men
scrambled off the wall and hustled across the parade ground to meet
the wagon with stupid, leering grins.
    “Flies to rotted meat,” Rebecca muttered.
    The wagon slowed to a stop in front of the
supply house. The driver tipped his hat and offered Rebecca a
smile.
    “Hello again, Mrs. Smythe.”
    She dipped her head in greeting. “You know
why I’m here.”
    “Yes ma’am and I have it for you.”
    Rebecca placed a hand over her chest and let
out a relieved sigh. The hours of fruitless waiting had seemed
longer than the weeks and months that had come before. But the
waiting was finally over.
    Soldiers arrived at the wagon and crowded
around the sideboard. They jostled for position to be the one to
help down the new girl. They behaved like idiots. If her husband
hadn’t been away in town, Rebecca felt sure he would have had them
put in stocks or had them whipped. Another group of men arrived to
unload the wagon.
    “May I have it?” Rebecca asked. The driver
reached under his seat and pulled out a parcel wrapped in cloth and
bound with string. She could tell from the shape it was her mirror.
The driver handed it down as a soldier swung the girl off the seat.
Rebecca watched in horror as the girl’s leg clipped the mirror and
it tumbled from the driver’s hand. Time seemed to slow. It felt to
Rebecca as though she’d stepped outside her body and unable to
react. The mirror ricocheted off the sideboard and spun like a
windmill till it hit the cobblestones. When she came to her senses
she was still screaming the word, “No.”
    The soldiers backed away. Some returned to
their posts. The new girl looked scared and chewed on her lower
lip. She bent down, picked up the mirror and timidly offered it to
Rebecca. Rebecca snatched it away and snapped the string with a
jerk of her fingers. She peeled off the cloth and threw it to the
ground. The silver handle was cold in her hand. Intricate filigree
decorated the back. She turned it over. A crack extended diagonally
across the glass. The girl shifted her gaze from the mirror to
Rebecca, a smug grin on her face.
    Rebecca's neck tensed with rage, her words
came out in a raspy hiss, “It’s ruined, ruined.” Her tone scattered
the remaining soldiers.
    “I will pay for a new one,” the girl
said.
    “What is your name?”
    “I will pay.”
    “Of course you will. What is your name?”
Rebecca demanded.
    “Libby.”
    “Your full name.”
    The team of horses, whose ears pricked up
when the commotion started, now folded them back as if checking for
a safe path to retreat.
    “Libby, ma’am.”
    “Don’t you have a proper name?”
    “My name is Libenasequa. White people call me
Libby because they have trouble pronouncing it.”
    “Do you know how long I waited for