Chapter 2: In the dungeons

6 July, 1686 Afternoon

The Cap—tain left the prisoners alone for the rest of the voyage while he took over the helm. An unexpected favorable wind sped the Angry Whore to Port Royal faster than expected. When they set anchor, half a dozen crew-members fetched the girls and took them into town.

The town of Port Royal had grown to be one of the two largest towns and the most economically important port in the English colonies. The city had one drinking house for every ten residents, and nearly 6,500 people lived in Port Royal. In addition to prostitutes and buccaneers, there were four goldsmiths, forty-four tavern keepers, and a variety of artisans and merchants who lived in two hundred buildings crammed into fifty-one acres of real estate. As many as two hundred ships had been known to visit the seaport in a single year. The city's wealth was so great that coins were preferred for payment rather than the more common system of bartering goods for services.

The two sisters, their clothes dirty and torn, were escorted to an old stone fort purchased by Bass with stolen booty two years prior. The women walked with their heads down, in deep embarrassment. A crowd had formed by the time they reached the fort and they were soon surrounded by drool—ing men and curious women.

They had been shut in the dungeon of the old stone fort for almost a day. The dungeon, with its stone walls, was horribly damp. A small window with bars let in the tropical sun, but did little to heat the cold room. The girls were chained to the wall by the wrists. Constance's hands had been cruelly tied behind her back, on special instruc—tions from Bass.

They were not alone. Isabel Santos, a Spanish girl who looked even younger than either of them, was with them. Like them, she was also in chains and scant—ily clad. Her gaze was intense, yet pained. She was young, but no child.

A few hours previously the jailer, a huge muscular man without a hair on his body, had brought them food. Two bowls with pieces of raw, smelly fish. They had not touched it.

Isabel had been almost a month in the pirates' hands now and the giant jailer had raped her previously and Isabel was unable to control her sobbing when he had entered. The sisters tried to comfort her, but the girl did not respond. She gave a long, bitter, desperate wail. It was a wolf's howl, blood chilling in its deso—lation as the sisters continued to consol the poor girl.

At that moment, footsteps sounded on the cob—blestones, and the bolt on the door was slid across. Bass's unmistakable silhouette appeared in the doorway.

"How be me little kittens this fine morning?" he asked, smiling sarcastically.

"You filthy bastard!" spat Constance.

The pi—rate ignored her, "Tomorrow ye'll be auctioned off in the main square. All three of ya. People are coming from all over the Caribbean, some even from the continent. People with money," he bent over in front of Constance and lifted her head by the hair. He looked her straight in the eye, "We do nay get flesh such as ye's got every day me darling."

Constance spat into his face. He replied by twist—ing her hair more cruelly, "I told ye afore. I'd like ta be the man what tame's ye, but I prom—ised me crew a share of what ye'll bring," he yanked her hair even harder.

"I got me a customer coming now. A private showing, ye understand. Some gents likes ta feel the merchandise for themselves afore the auction. When e' gets here show off yer selves real proud like and do nay give me no trouble, or ye'll feel me hand across your backside! Ah! Here e' is. Come in, Blanchart!"

Constance looked up as if she had heard the name of the Devil himself. Claire could not be—lieve her ears. M. Lucien Blanchart also stared in blank astonishment. He seemed momentarily discon—certed. But then, very slowly, a malevolent smile appeared on his lips.

It seemed to Constance that she had never looked at a more evil face in all her life. Not that the man was altogether ugly, for he had a good nose and a fine double chin; but his eyes stood out like balls and were red and watery, and he winked them continually, as though they were always smarting; and his lips were thick and purple-red, and his fat, red cheeks were mottled here and there with little clots of purple veins; and when he spoke his voice rattled so in his throat that it made one wish to clear one's own throat to listen to him. So, what with a pair of fat, white hands, and that hoarse voice, and his swollen face, and his thick lips sticking out, it seemed to Constance she had never seen a face so distasteful to her as that one, belonging to Lucien Blanchart, her very own uncle that both her and her sister had been running away from, into which she then looked.