Caribbean Reign Ch 03 04

Note: Once again, this chapter is not explicitly erotic, unless you find the degradation of an uppity former heiress erotic (which I do).

However, we do finally get to meet Catherine's dastardly, egotistical foil. I promise that there will be a meet-hot in the next submission so stick around!

Chapter 3: Trials of Empire - Rafael's Perspective

A giggle rouses me from a hard-won slumber. The girl is stretched out on the sheets, white fabric draped around her waist, her smooth torso, a perfect complement to my broad physique. She stares with blank, glossy eyes. An excellent bedroom companion, not much else to her.

A silver tray and a pile of steaming plates have been laid out on the dresser. The girl must have set up the breakfast service before crawling back into bed. I do value meticulousness.

"Good morning, master," she coos, wiggling closer to the headboard. Frizzy hair bounces on her left shoulder.

"Good morning, Mar."

I pat her on the head. Regrettably, the nickname implies a tender rapport between us. In truth, I am unable to recall if it is Maria or Marisa or Marisol. Actually, Marisa was two nights ago. That enormous backside is hard to forget. At any rate, there is a matching syllable in there, somewhere.

Maria turns down the covers and pauses to admire the hard lines of my chest. Though I command no troops, I maintain my fitness with militant fervor. How can a man have dominion over others if he does not first master himself?

"I hope you slept well, master."

She bites her lip seductively, "It is a pleasure to serve you. Perhaps I may serve you further."

"While I appreciate your service, we both have duties to which we must attend."

The girl nods and scurries to fetch a freshly pressed linen. My father would call me mad to turn down a romp with a pretty maid. Yet, as fortune may have it, I have ensured that all of my housemaids are beautiful. Lingering would just give them ideas.

Besides, Father is dying of syphilis. Perhaps if he spent less time with the maids and more time with the steward, there would be less work to fill my hours.

I hold out my arms. Maria deftly wraps a shirt around me and begins the process of buttoning the waistcoat.

Today's ensemble consists of a dark green fabric, expensive but not overly grandiose. Some men make fools of themselves, wrapping themselves in feathers and sashes. Every day is an opportunity to restore my family's status as the sole power on this island. If San Miguel becomes a full Spanish province, I will be appointed his majesty's Most Excellent Viscount of San Miguel, a status greater than that of many counts and marquises. I will not be dressed like some garish puppet.

A sharp prick attacks my side. Maria drops to her knees and looks somberly toward the ground.

She does not seem to have drawn blood. Mercy shall be given.

I gesture for her to rise, and she returns to her task a bit slower, finally providing the care that is due. Alas, this is the cost of allowing rotating chambermaids to attend me. Maria's backside flares outward as she straightens my collar. A stuffy, old dresser would do a better job, but I prefer the view. I nod to dismiss her.

Instead of obeying my orders, she slides her fingers across my trouser seams. "I would be honored to return to your side once we have finished our duties."

Must they always be so obvious?

These servant girls sense blood in the water, the clothing where my scent is the freshest. In many houses that would win jewels, attention, servants of their own.

Some masters even set beloved slaves free.

I am not one of those.

I do not resent that winning my favor is such a coveted prize. It would simply be unfair to grant a decisive advantage for such an uninspiring performance.

"I think it best that you return to your quarters tonight. Have Alma send Marisol in your stead."

My housekeeper will better know how to manage these emotions. I have no interest in cultivating relationships with women fixated on escaping their station. Slavery, and in some cases, indentured servitude, is an unfortunate fact of life. I cannot be every pretty maid's master in shining armor.

"Yes, master, of course."

The girl's posture shrinks. "In fact, my name is Marisol."

I keep my face neutral and rebutton my cuffs.

"Very well, then. Have her send Maria."

The girl bows her head and sets to making the bed. She is wise enough to admit defeat. I would feel worse if she had not been so well-compensated in pleasure last night. A few hard strokes and the girl was screaming for her master. Both the one in heaven and on earth.

An incessant voice chides from the hallway, "You ought to learn their names."

Isabel.

I quickly make for the other side of my chambers with the tray of my steaming, imported coffee and take a swig. Half of my taste buds are seared off in one foul sip. The porcelain handle hides the liquid's temperature well. No matter. Better to numb the senses before dealing with my sister's tireless morality.

I glance back at the girl tending to the linens. Her fingers tremble as she traces the corners and folds the edges.

"Am I also obligated to help her fold the laundry? Will that help our family to rise to greatness?"

I gesture for my sister to make her own observations. The girl would obviously be overwhelmed by anything beyond simple housework and a roll in the hay. Everyone has their place. While I don't pretend these places to be equal, engaging in unnecessary niceties contributes nothing toward wiping those French bastards off our island.

"You don't have to be so catty with me, Rafa," Isabel chides. "One name wouldn't kill you,"

I raise my cup to her. "Why take the risk?"

She sighs and continues down the hallway, undoubtedly setting set her sights on her next target.

My soft-hearted sister is oblivious to the world's underpinnings. If she had her way, she would let all the slaves free and turn the House of Navarro into a poorhouse. As much as I'd love to marry her off and let her terrorize someone else's household, that would never take. Isa has yet to display an interest in marriage and no one, not even the king himself, has ever been able to force a Navarro to do anything.

I press the imported brew to my lips. The hot liquid burns through my digestive tract. The estate will soon be flooded with people. It is my duty as future viscount to immerse myself in the endless squabbles of my domain. No matter how exhausting, I pride myself on being a fair governor.

***

My steward waits for me to descend the stairs. He takes my hand with such fealty that the black cape nearly dips over his shoulders. Sebastián insists on wearing such heavy fabrics, even in the middle of a heatwave. He kisses my ring.

"Señor Velazquez," I say, "how is production going?"

"Not as well as we had hoped, Your Excellency," he replies, head bowed. "But I have ensured a caravan of penal slaves to assist with our targets."

I do applaud the man's honesty. So few of my staff are willing to tell me the truth. They either fear my temper or want so badly to stay on my good side that they'd rather grovel than face me.

The viscountship is a lonely assignment. I have learned to draw strength from within. I concern myself only with those I can trust. If I have to reserve a few extra slaves to air out my trusted steward's wardrobe, so be it. Señor Velazquez might be the only man who wants the French off this island as badly as I do.

"Very resourceful, my friend." Flatlining production is just an unfortunate part of business.

I look him directly in the eye. "See to it that these new slaves learn how things work around here. I will have absolute obedience."

Sebastián nods. He opens the doors leading to the courtyard so that we may commence our morning session.

My father allowed order to fall to the wayside as he aged, preferring to eat, drink, and be merry. In doing so, that worthless de Guînes family gained a maritime foothold, almost overtaking us until I was given control of my father's office.

I will not make the same mistakes.

Chapter 4: On the Merits of Spanish Justice - Catherine's Perspective

Our chains screech against the metal eyebolts. Despite our best efforts, the prisoners continue to elbow each other. The road beneath us is worn, but not worn enough to stabilize a cartload of bodies.

I lean on Lucia for refuge. She pays me no mind. She is fully engrossed in prayer. Her lips tremble with the Spanish version of Notre Père.

The horizon unfolds into long, intemperate grasses. Sugarcane. Dark figures kneel between the rows of soaring stalks. Hundreds of dirt rows branch from the main road. The green land is vast, reaching far beyond the eye. There are footsteps pressed into the dust, the footprints of slaves on the way to the day's labor.

A man rides past the cart, whip in hand. He pauses to stare at us, his eyes resting on me in particular. I dislike his expression.

"Lucia, where are we?" I shake her leg, terrified of the answer.

Lucia pantomimes the sign of the cross. "The Navarro plantation," she says.

A faintness that I associate only with overtightened whalebone corsets rushes over me. I hold myself against the stiff edge of the cart walls. The jail, with its incompetent staff and hunched roof, could only do so much to frighten. At the end of the day, a jailor's grease can be removed with a warm bath and a wet sponge. A bloodied back cannot be cleansed so easily.

While I am not oblivious to the type of business conducted here, my parents always protected me from the grim realities of a plantation. Papa mandated that all serious discipline be carried out in the slave quarters. Maman kept me inside most of the time, worried more about my skin becoming darker than of my ignorance of the lands my husband would one day inherit. Any questions about the nature of our wealth were always answered with an adage that presented us as stewards of the Almighty. And by all accounts, the Almighty has chosen our family.

My parents were proud that the house staff were clothed and fed better than many of the free natives on Saint-Michel. While I cannot say that I've ever chatted with the field workers, as far as I can tell, my parents are benevolent masters. The house staff receives more time off from their duties than I receive from the piano.

The Navarro family does not seem to take the same approach. The faces of their field slaves are even more worn down than the faces of my fellow prisoners. Women in ragged clothing work with babies on their backs. An old man struggles to lift his bundle. The horse rider follows him closely.

I look away as the rider brings down his whip.

In the midst of all this squalor, a grand villa sits atop a hill, overlooking its dominion from tall arches and square towers. The sight draws the other prisoners to wonderment. The sun grazes the roof, a signature, dusky red. From this distance, the main house appears a mirage, an oasis amid pain and suffering.

There was a time when I would have scoffed at these ostentatious design choices from my carriage window. Now, I am loaded off the jailer's cart like a piece of cattle and prodded into line.

It seems that the horse rider is to be our overseer. He greets his convicts with a menacing stare, straw jutting out between his teeth and not even a word of welcome. His associates begin unlatching our wrist restraints. They fall to the ground with a clink.

The bayonet's glint culls all thoughts of fleeing. Another man brings forth a pile of sack-like material. Shapeless brown fabric is shoved into my hands.

"Put your old clothes in a pile and be quick about it," the overseer barks.

The male prisoners begin undressing immediately. The women look at each other nervously, instinctively tightening their arms across their chests. One of the overseers slams his club down on a young girl's back. After that, we are much more compliant.

I struggle with my laces, finally managing to get Annalise's dress to the ground. Someone whistles. I look out into the sea of brown bodies surrounding me. Only one other prisoner is of European descent. His body is wrinkled and male, while mine is supple and feminine. A thousand eyes now ogle the breasts once privy to only me and my lady's maid.

I scramble to preserve my remaining dignity. The sack is a short tube with a single drawstring. I pull the burlap over my knees and up to my collarbone. It barely lands past my navel. The other girls wear it much differently. Their bosoms hang over the top, and the strings are tied below them.

This cannot be.

"Stop fooling around," says the man with the club. The other prisoners stifle their laughter.

I lower the smock to its intended height. The other men continue staring. I have not even a shawl to cover my nakedness and somehow, they expect us to work like this? The other field slaves are clothed in rags, provided at least a measure of protection from the sun. Perhaps as penal slaves, we are more expendable. A cheap good stretched thin for our owners' entertainment.

One of the overseers grabs my arm. His fingernails cut into my skin.

"Sandals," he grunts and shoves me back in line.

I bend to remove my sandals, a tear escaping my eye. The ill-fitting shoes are cast onto the pile of discarded garments. The whole of the pile could not be worth more than a handful of livres. They take all that they can from us.

Sufficiently pleased, the horse rider steps out from behind his lackeys. His stomach stretches over his breeches.

"Welcome to the Navarro plantation, convicts. This is where you'll serve out your sentences. Don Navarro has given strict orders to increase production and we don't intend to give the new slaves any excuses."

Slave.

The only word I like less than prisoner.

I probably look the part by now. Dirty. Barefoot. Delinquent. It is as if 'Catherine' has been washed away and replaced by a pitiful wretch. My own family would not recognize me from a few paces, and now I'm to be the property of our greatest enemy.

The overseer continues, "You'll be harvesting sugarcane, so you're going to have knives. Don't think about trying anything. We've got bigger ones. And dogs."

A bayonet traces the chin of one of the male slaves for good measure. The faintest trace of blood appears on his neck.

The threats are gratuitous. Running away would be near impossible given the size of the plantation. I don't imagine that anyone would be able to get far on foot.

"We're going to get you into leg irons and then tomorrow, you'll learn what it's like to work in the sun."

He laughs with a porky, bone-crunching sound. The setting sun is already beginning to burn my fair complexion.

We are led across the field, toward an anvil near the slave buildings. The prisoners' ankles are forced into permanent iron restraints. A red-hot pin is riveted through the metal cuffs, and a chain latches the restraints together. The new slaves keep still from fear of the hammer missing its mark.

I approach the anvil, following the feet ahead of me, trying not to think of the consequences.

"Are we doing brandings today?" the blacksmith asks.

"We'll just do the shackles for now. José has the day off, and you know how he likes to hear them scream."

The blacksmith gives me a nasty grin as he forces my slender ankle onto the table.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I choke on the burning scent of metal, thankful that it is not the burning scent of flesh. The riveted cuff is hot but quickly cools to the point where I can almost bear it.

In our new chains, we shuffle towards the shanties. The men head towards one building, and the women, toward another. Overseers stand at the doorways of both barracks. The dirt ground feels so foreign under my newly bare feet. Even without the shackles, I would be struggling to walk.

An older, native woman stands tall in the rear of the women's barracks.

"Listen, girls, this is a hard place. You will not enjoy your time here, but you can make it easier on yourself. Work till they tell you to stop, do what they tell you to do, and be thankful for the scraps you get."

The idea of such a life is nearly unfathomable. I seek out Lucia in the middle of the speech. She is tucked amongst a group of the others, eyes glazed over. All individuality is flattened by the barracks. To be anything beyond part of the sweating, amorphous mass is sacrilege.

"Pick a spot on the floor and get to sleep. We all have a long day ahead of us." The woman gestures to the dirt floor where some of the veteran girls have already begun laying out shreds of fabric upon which to sleep.

The woman makes her way over to the new slaves and places her wrinkled hands around Lucia's cheeks. "What is your name, child?"

"Lucia, señora."

"Call me 'Guadalupe'," she says, brushing a strand of hair away from Lucia's face. "It's a pity that you're a convict, or you might have a real chance at working in the house."

Lucia nods, understanding the vast distinction between those two lives.

She saunters over to me. "You, girl, I don't know why you're here."

"I mean you no trouble, Guadalupe."

"That's señora to you." She spits on the ground and walks away.

As the night creeps closer, the field slaves squeeze together on ragged mats, content to press their naked flesh against each other. The new girls mostly stay on the edges of the sweaty camaraderie. A few select girls are invited to lay between feet and shoulders. I head towards a less-occupied corner, and the others scatter. Even amongst the newcomers, I am unwelcome.

More than the rest of the penal slaves, I suspect they hate me for ending up in a place that has come upon them by force. I do not blame them.

Lucia, on the other hand, is stuffed between two bigger girls. She carves out a space next to her and gestures for me to join her. Her neighbors reluctantly shuffle apart. I crawl carefully over the heap of bodies and lay across the floor.

"Lucia," I whisper, "we've only just met. What could I possibly have done to deserve your kindness?"

Lucia lies back, resting on her side to face me. "Señorita, one day, you will make it back to where you belong. Maybe you will remember me."

I grasp her hands. "I will, Lucia. I will."

"They do not say it, but I fear this is a life sentence." And with those chilling words, she shuts her eyes.

I try not to think on the years of forced labor, my knuckles growing old like señora Guadalupe. By the time, I am ready to close my eyes, I find myself hoping not to awaken.

***

The next day, I wake in a pile of sweating bodies, very much alive.

We are corralled outside at the faintest light. The dark shades of night have not even faded from the sky. The overseers slap their whips against the building, practicing their aim, reminding us of their power. Most of the slaves are still wiping the sleep from their eyes. Insect wings float in the gruel meant for our breakfast. I manage only a few spoonfuls before a machete is pressed into my hands.

The handle is well-worn and the blade crooked. I practice a few swishes in the air before I am herded into an empty field row. A basket is slammed down beside me. The wordless figures that surround me seem to know what they are doing.

Copying the others, I start by sawing close to the root. The machete's rough handle bites into my palm. The stalks of sugarcane begin to fall.

Soon, my back aches from felling and scooping. All my hard work is swept into the basked and carried away. I try to kneel instead, but the fetters pull at my tendons, and it hurts to rest on my toes. Once my square is clear, I look up for encouragement.

There is nothing but more work to be done.

My knife moves onto the next patch and starts the process from the beginning. I take deep breaths as my world hurtles toward disaster.