Jacqueline's Legacy

Part 2: Angel

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Chapter 16: Searching for Jacqueline

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Saint Pierre, Martinique, June 1830

Just as I predicted, I become an outcast the moment my adoption by Brigitte Thibert twenty-one years ago becomes known among the snobby social circles of Fort Royal. Perhaps 'outcast' is an exaggeration, but unless I can prove that my birth-mother, Jacqueline, was a woman worthy of respect, then I'll remain relegated to the outer fringes of Martinique high society. Personally, nothing would please me more than to be rid of the strictures and mores of their elitist society. It's all a pantomime anyway. Under the veneer of etiquette and propriety, there is an abundance of illicit affairs and sexual abandon.

However, Brigitte Thibert, the woman I've called Mama since my birth, deserves better. She and her ancestors have been members of the ruling class of Martinique for over a century. I owe it to her to do my best to fit into her social circles. Which means I need to find out more about my birth mother. All I know is that Jacqueline was pregnant with me when she was purchased as a slave for the Ladybird plantation. Jacqueline was granted her freedom as soon as she signed the adoption paper handing me over to Jules and Brigitte Thibert. Following Jules' death a year later, my 'uncle' Henri inherited the Ladybird plantation.

That's why I've travelled north to Saint Pierre, the administrative capital of Martinique. Hopefully I can find some record about Jacqueline in Saint Pierre. Failing that I can travel from there to the Ladybird plantation, where I was born. Perhaps Henri will allow me to read the plantation's records to see what I can find.

It's a sign of Mama's eagerness for me to succeed that she's allowed me to travel north with only Samantha and Charity for company. Samantha has only just returned from her visit to St. Lucia, so I feel honoured that she was willing to set off on another journey so soon. Her practical skills will be invaluable, and having her along has boosted my spirits.

There are numerous reasons why Charity Howe is a poor choice of travelling companion. She and I have spent the last decade at each other's throats with no love lost between us. Charity and her family descend from the English settler society, while Mama and I are part of the rival French settler group. Theoretically that division ended fifteen years ago when the English handed Martinique back to the French. The two groups of settlers supposedly became a single Martinique group. It has taken nearly a generation for practise to catch up with theory. I suppose Charity and I have been on better terms in recent weeks, ever since I kissed her.

Charity is tentatively engaged to my 'brother' Randolph, who is currently working with Henri on the Ladybird plantation. Since Henri is getting old and has never married, Randolph is heir apparent to the Ladybird plantation. Charity is travelling north in order to visit Randolph in Saint Pierre. It's a testimony to the double standards of Martinique high society that Randolph's adoption is perfectly acceptable while mine is not. Randolph's mother was a slave, like mine, but it doesn't impact on his social standing.

We travel to Saint Pierre by ship. It's both faster and safer than the winding overland route through tropical forest. If we need to go to the plantation, then we'll have no option but to travel by road. Fortunately that's a problem for another day.

"Where do you intend to start your search?" asks Charity as the two of us stand by the ship's rail while the west coast of Martinique slips past us.

"Edward suggested I work back from the plantation's slave register," I reply. "But that would mean going to the plantation first. That's not very convenient, so I think I'll look at whatever records I can find in Saint Pierre."

My very good friend Edward Pickford has provided invaluable advice on how to go about tracing my birth-mother. But he warned me that record keeping isn't always as good as it should be. A misspelt name or wrong date can throw a search off track. After all, a slave's origin isn't something that normally attracts a lot of attention, particularly after more than two decades.

"What about you?" I ask. "Does Randolph know you are travelling to Saint Pierre?"

"I sent a letter two weeks ago telling him I was coming to Saint Pierre, but I've no idea if he's received it."

Mama has arranged for the three of us to stay with her cousin, George Thibert, who operates a small inn on the outskirts of Saint Pierre. Samantha knows the location of the inn and we go straight there when our ship disembarks. George is a man well into his fifties, and his age is starting to tell on his body. Either that or it's the copious amount of rum he consumes that is pickling his liver. He's a jovial sort of man, who can tell tales and anecdotes for hours.

"The road to the Ladybird plantation was blocked during the last storm," says George. "I'm not sure if it has been reopened yet. You might have to wait a week or so."

That bad news is only made worse when George gives me my first real clue about Jacqueline. I've made no secret of the purpose of my visit to Saint Pierre. Edward suggested that there's a remote chance that some of the older residents of Saint Pierre may remember something about a young olive skinned woman recently freed from slavery passing through Saint Pierre and, according to Mama's recollection, leaving on an English warship. George turns out to be just such a person.

"Yeah. I vaguely remember a dark haired beauty who spent a few months in Saint Pierre around the time you mention. I think she was working on old Maurice's farm. He's dead now though, so he's not going to be able to help you."

"Do you know what became of her when she left. Mama thinks she was taken aboard an English warship."

"Hmm. Unlikely. That was during the war between the English and French. The only civilians allowed on a warship would be prisoners being taken back to England to stand trial. Either Brigitte is wrong, or your Jacqueline was a wanted criminal."

Oh great! Not only was my mother a slave, but she may have been a wanted criminal as well. I'm never going to live that down.

"Ah! But if she was taken to England to stand trial, then there will be an official record of the trial," says Charity. "If we can narrow down the date of her departure, we might be able to work out when she arrived in England. If she was wanted for a crime worth transporting her to England, then she will almost certainly have been sent to London. It might mean a long journey to England later on, but its a definite line we could follow up."

"You say 'we'," I say. "Are you offering to help me?"

"Yes. At least for the next few weeks until the road north is open again. It'll be better than sitting around counting flies on the bedroom wall."

"Thanks, although I can't see how confirming my mother was a criminal is going to help me counter those who want to cast me out of Fort Royal society circles."

"We don't know that she was a criminal," says Samantha. "And even if she was, she could have been someone the French would regard as a war hero. Perhaps a spy, or a saboteur. Remember there was a war going on at the time."

Samantha's words cheer me up, although it's the flimsiest of theories.

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Chapter 17: Sharing a room

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Samantha, Charity and I settle into our room at the inn. George's hospitality doesn't extend to free accommodation. Since I have only a very limited budget, Charity has offered to share her room with Samantha and me to help stretch my money further. A few weeks ago, such an offer would have been unthinkable, but Charity and I are no longer the bitter enemies we once were. The room is clean and moderately comfortable. We solve the problem of there only being two beds by pushing them together to make one large bed for the three of us.

The hot humid climate doesn't help, although the occasional sea breeze keeps things bearable. Even so, all three of us take every opportunity to discard surplus clothes. The occasional sight of my tits and arse does strange things to Charity's behaviour. Perhaps if I'd been more experienced in reading sexual clues, I'd have been aware of Charity's feelings towards me. It's only when she strips herself naked and slides into bed next to me that I realise the depth of her sexual desire. I don't resist as she removes my minimal clothing. Kissing and fondling soon follow and before long I'm an active participant in our passionate game.

Samantha makes an excuse about going down to the bar to listen for stories and gossip that might help our search for Jacqueline's history. I'm not sure if Sam's simply giving us some privacy, or if she's not into sex between women. I hope she isn't embarrassed by our behaviour.

"You are a dark horse," says Charity as we lie side by side resting after some wonderful sex. "You instinctively know what to do during sex. If I'd known you were so hot in bed, I might have been more open about my feelings towards you before."

I'm not sure I deserve that level of flattery. I simply did to Charity what I know excites and arouses me. Of course, sucking her clit is something I can't do to myself, but it doesn't take a genius to discover that source of pleasure. Although Mama is very strict about my needing an escort in public, she openly discusses sexual technique with me and tolerates almost all types of behaviour in private. It's yet another example of the veneer of public respectability disguising wild and sensuous orgies behind closed doors.

"I'm hopeless at reading sexual clues," I laugh. "If you hadn't stripped naked and climbed into bed, I might never have known you wanted sex with me."

"Yeah, well stripping naked usually gets the message across. Do you think Sam will be alright with this? She doesn't seem to be into this sort of sex."

"I'll talk with her in the morning," I reply. "Sam's a member of the Banana Club, so she can't be that delicate about sex. Perhaps she was simply giving us some space."

"Well I'm okay with a threesome if she's up for it," says Charity.

Charity and I have fallen asleep in each other's arms by the time Samantha returns to our room. I vaguely sense Sam get into bed next to me, trying not to disturb me. The press of her naked body against mine causes me to stir and wrap my arm around her. I'm sandwiched between my two companions, each with a hand casually cupping one of my tits. I soon drift back into sleep.

We wake the next morning in a tangle of arms and legs. It's still early and a cool sea breeze keeps the room at a pleasant temperature. In a few hours time the day's heat will make such intimacy a sticky and sweaty affair. But for now we can romp and play in comfort. It doesn't take us long to satisfy Charity's desire for a threesome.

"There's another reason why Jacqueline may have been taken off the island aboard an English warship," says Samantha, when we finally decide to get dressed and eat some breakfast.

"What reason is that?" I ask.

"You said she was kidnapped by pirates and sold into slavery. If that's the case, then perhaps she was an English lady of some importance. The English navy may have been searching for her in order to rescue her. Perhaps she was the daughter or wife of an English lord."

Since I shudder at the thought of Jacqueline being a wanted criminal, I'd like to believe Samantha's theory. However I'm sure Mama said that Jacqueline had been captured rather than kidnapped, and that she had some unsavoury friends. Mama's choice of words doesn't mean that Sam's theory is incorrect, but they favour the wanted criminal scenario.

"So what did you learn when you went down to the bar last night?" asks Charity.

"Nothing useful," sighs Samantha. "A pirate named Pardal and his crew met their demise in Saint Pierre's bay around the time Jacqueline was sold to the Ladybird plantation. Unfortunately, I doubt it's more than a coincidence. Without knowing what date Jacqueline was purchased by the plantation, the two events could be months apart."

"Are we sure that Jacqueline was purchased here in Saint Pierre?" asks Charity, warming to the idea of playing detective.

"No, although it seems highly likely," I reply. "The only registered slave markets on this side of the island are here in Saint Pierre or in Fort Royal."

Of course slaves can be bought and sold in private deals without involving a registered slave trader. If that's what happened to Jacqueline, then my quest is almost certainly doomed to failure. However it is far too early to give up hope. After all, George gave us a clue out of the blue only yesterday. Another clue could easily come out of nowhere.

Samantha, Charity and I spend the day badgering local administration clerks for decades-old records. Unfortunately, very few useful records of that period remain. The flip-flop of control of Martinique between the French and English means that administrative records are far from consistent. The climate isn't conducive to preserving paper documents, particularly those that aren't filed with a view to long term storage. The only useful piece of information we gain is the name and address of the only registered Saint Pierre slave trader of that era.

We visit the address we've been given. The business operating from the premises still trades in slaves, although it's something of a sideline these days. The young man running the business is the son of the man whose name we have been given.

"If you want to talk to my father, you'll need to go to the cemetery," says the man. "He's been dead for over a decade."

I explain what I'm looking for, only to be greeted with a bemused look. Yes, somewhere in the attic are the records I'm wanting to search, but they will take a lot of effort to find. My request is really inconvenient and not worth the man's time and trouble. It's a ploy, of course, to get me to pay an extortionate amount of money for his help. Had we been tax inspectors or the military making the inquiry, the records would appear in next to no time.

"How about I give you a blow job," offers Samantha without consulting us first. "We wouldn't want you thinking that we are ungrateful for your assistance."

There's some haggling, and in the end he settles for each of us giving him a blow job. We duly deliver our part of the deal, after which he fetches a dusty leather bound ledger, which was remarkably easy for him to find. He allows us the use of a back room to delve through the ledger.

Nearly an hour later we abandon our search. We've tracked through over a year's worth of records but no mention of a Jacqueline, or any name that might be connected. I refuse to believe that we are searching the wrong period. Mama was adamant that Jacqueline was pregnant when they purchased her. I can only conclude that this slave trader didn't sell her. Now it means we must travel to the Ladybird plantation and ask my 'uncle' Henri if I may peruse his slave register.

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Chapter 18: Arrival at the Ladybird plantation

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I would like to leave for the Ladybird plantation immediately, but we need to wait until Randolph responds to Charity's letter asking him to meet her in Saint Pierre. His arrival would confirm that the road to the north-east of the island has been reopened. Few travellers venture as far as the Ladybird plantation, so finding news about the state of the road is difficult.

We spend the next three days making inquiries around Saint Pierre about both Jacqueline and the conditiin of the north-east road. We accumulate plenty of contradictory rumours and numerous offers for sex. We nevertheless manage to find a few snippets of information. The local printer recalls being asked by an officer of the English navy to print scores of posters offering a reward for information about a woman called Jacqueline. The timing of the request is about the time of Jacqueline's enslavement. Unfortunately the printer can't remember the details, but says that Jacqueline's surname was definitely French. While it is useful information, it seems to destroy Samantha's theory that Jacqueline might have been an important English lady. However, it confirms that the English navy were willing to pay a reward for Jacqueline's recovery. That means she can't have been an unimportant nobody.

Word finally arrives that the road to the north-east is open once again. Unfortunately, there is no sign of Randolph. Either Charity's letter never reached him, or something is preventing him from making the journey to Saint Pierre.

"How long will it take us to reach the Ladybird plantation?" I ask George.

"At least a day on foot or with a wagon," he replies. "If the weather is fine and the road is in good condition, you can probably cover the distance in a few hours on horseback. But I doubt the road is little more than a muddy track after the recent rain. If you intend to travel on horseback, I would allow at least a full day."

George is able to obtain the use of three horses from a local farmer, although they are well past their prime. Charity, Samantha and I set off for the Ladybird plantation early the next morning. We make good progress for the first hour before the sun rises high in the sky. Once we are away from the coast the cool coastal air gives way to an oppressively hot and humid climate. The horses start to slow as the mud gets deeper and we have to circle around washouts and fallen trees. We need to stop every half-an-hour or so to rest both ourselves and our horses.

We occasionally pass a farmer taking his produce to Saint Pierre. When we ask how much further it is to the Ladybird plantation, their answers aren't very encouraging.

"I don't think we can get to the plantation before dark," says Samantha after we pass the latest traveller on the road in mid-afternoon. "If we come across a village, I suggest we stop for the night and resume our journey in the morning."

We've seen the occasional farm and plantation, but nothing that could be called a village. George was a bit vague about the geography, and I suspect that he has never travelled this route. I can't say that I blame him. The road is narrow and winding, and uphill for the most part. In places it would be a tight squeeze to pass with a wagon. The verdant forest on either side almost covers the road with overhanging branches. They at least branches provide shade from the sun, but they trap the heat like a blanket. Fortunately for us we come across a group of half a dozen buildings mid-afternoon that could generously be called a village. The massive volcano that sits to the north of Saint Pierre is still to our left as we travel. However, we have now climbed high enough to reach a plateau between the volcano and the mountains to the south. Ahead of us the land descends towards the north-east coast of the island. Darkness is four or five hours away. Normally that should be sufficient time for us to complete our journey. However, the villagers warn us that the road ahead is barely passable and they advise against trying to reach the Ladybird plantation today.

The village doesn't boast anything that resembles an inn, so we are offered a place to sleep in one of the outhouses. Our host's generosity isn't entirely selfless. At first, he asks for an exorbitant sum for our accommodation. However, he soon drops his ridiculous demands and settles for a hand job provided by Samantha. I suspect that was his intention in the first place. It's not the most comfortable night's rest I've experienced, but nor is it the worst. Sleeping out in the open during the heavy overnight downpour would have been far worse.