Chapter One

The Khoi

“Sorceress, Sorceress! Burn her, burn her!”

The incessant chanting, nearly to a state of frenzy,

was sufficient to unnerve any creature that dared to

observe the spectacle from nearby, and it filled their

hearts with dread.

A woman, her face betrayed by unbridled forces in

attaining the years of twilight, and her lips parched from

the mid-day sun, shuffled her way through the boisterous

assembly until she had reached it’s foundation. With frail

hands gripped firmly around its base, she held a primitive

walking stick, thrusting it again and again high into the

balmy air. “She has doomed us, she has doomed us all!” the

old woman cried out, “She is a witch! Burn the witch! Burn

the witch!”

The fervor in her voice took by surprise a gangly

fellow standing nearby, who turn with staring eyes. And

when he had recovered his prior frame of mind, he echoed

the call of the old woman for a punishment of death.

Almost immediately, the demand had a domino effect on

the remaining one hundred twenty-five Khoi that gathered

that dark day; for those words she bellowed over and over

again, “Burn the witch, Burn the witch”, as if they were an

insidious virus, echoed from man to man, woman to woman,

and child to child.

They were a proud and cohesive people, the Khoi.

Members of the same patrilineal clan occupied the

encampment, along with their wives and children. The

natives herded cattle, goats and sheep. And after grazing

in the local region was depleted, the structures of the

Khoi were meticulously dismantled and re-erected in other

areas, overflowing with green grasses.

~~~~~~~

In a nearby reed-covered hut, the principal of them

all, made of bent, green branches planted into the ground,

a shaman, elders, and the Headman of the clan debated the

sentence handed down by the tribal council.

Eight men sat on the hard ground in a semi-circle,

each on a seat of brittle straw, and the shaman stood

gravely before them. A Headman tied the feathers of an

eagle’s wing around his head, as it was the custom. And

positioned slightly higher on a mound of dried mud, he

listened and observed an impassioned debate with keen

interest.

An elder, the most aged and a spindly chap, slowly

struggled to his feet. And in a surprisingly defiant and

reckless manner, with a furrowed brow, he turned toward the

leader of the clan. “The girl has broken the sacred law,”

he growled. “She must be punished!”

A few elders nodded in agreement.

“But, she is nothing but a misguided child!” defended

the shaman.

With burning eyes of those of a jealous rival, another

man, a grey-whiskered chap with a nose like the beak of a

African vulture, glared at the Shaman and barked, “But the

dark heart of the child has brought evil to the village!”

The shaman lips quivered slightly, his face cast down.

He lifted his head slowly, and turned an eyed toward the

Headman. “The heart of her,” said he, with a somber gaze,

“is no less impure than my heart——nor the heart of yours,

or that of any of you.”

The chieftain struck his long staff into the soft

ground with force. “Gunab the malevolent walks among us!

The girl, she belongs to Tsui, now,” he snarled through

badly worn teeth. He rose from his throne of hard earth,

with an angry gleam in his dark brown eyes and added, “It

is he who is god of all who practice the forbidden magic!”

Outside, at the center of the dwellings of the Khoi, a

young female of about Thirteen years of age stood on a pile

of dried brush. Fresh strips of cow hide bounded her small

hands and feet to a long wooden pole. Her tattered

garments, made of the skin of domesticated animals, hung

from a bruised body, and trickles of crimson ran from

between her parched lips.

A rarely used ritual, performed hours earlier to rid

the body of unclean spirits, was the cause of her extremely

dire state; and the body of the young girl testified to the

brutality of it in its entirety.

Those who were wisest within the tribal council had

shaven the head of the child to expel the evil, and left

dried sheep guts attached to the ankles as an anchor to a

deteriorating soul. Now and again, she mustered strength

enough to peer out at her boisterous accusers, through

swollen and blackened eyes.

Children of the village threw small stones and sticks

at the accused. The girl’s mother and other despondent

relatives stood at the forefront of the gathering, weeping

and pouring fine earth by the handfuls over heads and feet,

each to others.

The shaman exited the council hut after a short time,

and stood there for a moment with his staff, a thick piece

of wood with a bulbous head, gripped firmly in his hands. A

headdress of small beads and ostrich feathers blew gently

in the wind. And adorning his neck and wrist was a large

copper necklace and bracelets.

With a face, smooth and void of any expression, and

with soft eyes, he fixed his gaze upon the multitudes until

his presence silenced their madness.

The throng, it parted, creating an abandoned

passageway leading to the condemned. The shaman walked

slowly toward the young girl, occasionally looking into the

silent face of a man, woman, or child. And when he reached

the small mound of dried leaves and brittle sticks of a

Marula Tree, with a steady hand, he scooped water from a

hollowed trunk, and poured it between the bloodied lips of

the young girl. Words were whispered into her ear by the

medicine man, and then he turned to face his people, the

Khoi.

“Today, my beloved child is sacrificed,” said he, his

voice raised and slightly trembling, “so that all that once

was, shall be again. From this day forward let no one

speak ill words in her name.” He choose a large primitive

torch from a small pile, and placed the end of it into the

flames of a nearby fire, and bellowed, “May Gounja, the

chief of all gods, receive her soul in repentance and show

mercy toward us, his servants.”

Brushwood of the Marula tree was lit, and then the

shaman gathered his grieving wife and relatives and went to

his hut.

~~~~~~~

Ashes and bones were gathered into a large sheep skin

sack, the dawn after. Accompanied by members of the tribal

council, the shaman carried the remains to a dark and

mysterious place; a Khoi burial ground called the Cave of

Dreams where a proper grave was excavated.

A rite was performed which included the burning of

animal fat, and the swallowing of leaves of the most sacred

tree of the Khoi, the Marula.

The foliage, bitter to the taste, was unsettling to

the stomach. And as was the custom, the violent vomiting

that followed was directed toward the bottom of the emptied

grave.
 Above his head, the Shaman lifted a small cowhide

pouch. “May this offering guide the spirit of my child

safely into the after life, into the waiting arms of

Gounja,” he cried, placing it at the bottom of the grave.

After the sack which contained the remains of the

young girl was laid in the grave, and after her eternal

resting place was filled with rust-colored earth, the men

resealed the cave and began the three-day journey back to

the village.

~~~~~~~

When Europeans first encountered the Khoi, it was by

Dutch traders who had shipwrecked at the Cape of Good Hope

in 1649. They carried diseases unknown to the local

population, causing a pestilence that annihilated countless

African villages. Over a century and a half later, not only

the Dutch but also the British had taken control of much of

the land, using it for farming efforts. The Khoi, who were

considered a free people, became their chief source of wage

labor. Other races of color the colony did however consider

as slaves, which set the tone for relations between the

emergent white Afrikaner or Boer populations and the

Europeans.
 ~~~~~~

A large fully-bearded gentleman, with wire spectacles

resting comfortably on the bridge of his nose, entered the

Great Hall and proceeded to delivered to the doorman a fine

military hat.

“The honorable Colonial Secretary, Colonel Christopher

Bird!” the fellow announced.

Dressed in fine garbs, the latest fashions of Europe,

distinguished guest mingled and drank expensive wine as a

string quartet entertained them with the great works of

Monteverdi and other fine composers.

The Governor of the Cape of Good Hope, Du Pré

Alexander, with a strong-jawed rugged face, keen grey eyes,

and a wiry vigorous frame which had lost nothing of the

strength and activity of youth, stood within a trio of

petite British Royals who had just arrived on a massive

clipper out of London.

“You saw this?” A Duchess, the tallest asked him.

“As clearly as I see the lovely three of you.”

“And you said nothing?” asked another, with a thrill

in her voice.

“What was the use?”

 “I suppose, I myself would not have done so, but tell

me——how is it that no one else took notice?”

“They were blinded by a line of hedges, eight feet

high and impenetrable,” answered the Governor.

The third Duchess, a beautiful woman, graceful and

queenly, spoke with distain in her voice; that of a woman

scorned. “It seems rather natural, does it not? Lord Craven

possesses the manners of a vagabond of East London, and

that fact is quite known.”

Governor Du Pré Alexander chuckled. His head tilted

slightly to the side, and he leaned forward. “Yet,” said

he, his voice almost sinking to a whisper, “he still is a

man of intrigue and great influence.”

“Yes,” spoke softly, the tall Duchess, “odd, is it

not?”

They were interrupted by well-dressed, robustly built

fellow who bowed graciously, spoke a few words into the ear

of the Governor, and then pointed toward his associates who

were chatting with a wine servant across the great hall.

The Colonial Administrator excused himself, and was ushered

away by the gentleman to meet with the noblemen.

```````
 In a comfortable corner, the gathering of wealthy

aristocrats conversed amongst themselves in low voices,

until the approaching presence of Governor Du Pré Alexander

was noticed.

The colony administrator had barely an opportunity to

settle his step before one of the landowners, a small dark-

eyed man with thick grey eyebrows, voiced a complaint. “We

are in desperate need of a larger labor force,” said he,

acrimoniously.

“I agree,” said the robust individual. “Under current

conditions, the colony can not possibly achieve export

projections and feed the increasing population, both.”

“And what actions have you taken against the

rebellious Dutch farmers, Governor?” asked Lord Craven, a

handsome and well-known gentleman in society circles of

London; mostly, on account of his charming personality.

“There is even word that they are secretly establishing an

office of magistracy.”

The most politically powerful and most senior of the

aristocrats drank from the glass of red wine in which he

held in his left hand. Tall, stout, grey-whiskered, and

solemnly respectable, his life story was written in his

heavy features and pretentious manner. With an intent

expression upon his face, flushed, and angry cheeks, the

irreproachable Englishman lifted his bulldog eyes toward

the Governor and snarled, “When will soldiers be dispatched

to guarantee the safety of the British settlers, the

citizens?”

They were powerful men, the noblemen. And because he

already faced an investigation over a suspect purchase of

property, and his appointment as Colony Administrator was

also questioned as being of a partisan assessment, the

Governor knew he would do well to garner as many political

allies in the outpost and in England as possible.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” spoke Governor Du Pré

Alexander in a conciliatory tone, “I can assure you, more

troops and additional slaves will be delivered to the

colony, soon. Why, General Craig himself has personally

assured me that the Boer revolt on the eastern frontier

will be crushed within a few weeks.”

“It’s a wonder anyone can make a decent living for

fear of those barbarians,” said one of the landowners. “It

is most improper——most outrageous, and I must insist upon

some explanation as to how the situation came to be so

utterly dire.”

“Perhaps the Governor has interest unknown to none

other but himself,” said another landowner.

 The eyes of the colonial administrator narrowed, and

his rugged face flushed to a dusky red. “Are you

questioning my loyalty, Mister McCartney?” he barked.

The outburst caused more than a few to turn their

head, and their curious stare caught the attention of Lord

Craven. “Gentlemen please, we must set a shining example of

civility for the sake of the local inhabitants,” he uttered

through a feeble smile.

With the rim of a glass of red wine pressed firmly

between his lips, he looked about the hall, meekly bowing

his head toward a trio of inquisitive female socialites.

His interest turned back to the Governor. “Sir, no one

doubts your allegiance,” he continued. “On the contrary, I

for one admire your steadfastness and devotion to the

colony, and that opinion is not alone mine——it is shared by

many here and in London. So, that being said, may I be so

bold as to have a word with you in private, regarding a

matter of considerable importance——over a new glass of

wine, perhaps?”

The Governor nodded in agreement and then, to the

consternation of the remaining aristocrats, he and Lord

Craven stepped away toward a large table filled with empty

glasses, and bottles of wine of every sort.

 “Sir, I have a rather unusual request——one, which

requires an utmost sensitivity,” began Lord Craven. “A

member of the House of Commons who fancies the study of

human development wishes to examine one of the local

inhabitants. I believe you refer to them as the Khoi.”

“I wasn’t informed of the arrival of any London

official,” said the governor, somewhat annoyed. “Where is

this person of whom you speak, Lord Craven?”

In hopes of discovering the identity of the

influential British politician, he took a fleeting look

about the hall.

“The gentleman has not yet visited the colony, sir,”

replied Lord Craven, “and as far as I am aware, he has no

immediate desire to do so.”

“I see. Well, you are aware of British colonial

policy——by parliamentary decree, although not considered

British subjects, the Khoi are, nevertheless, free people

and therefore ineligible for export.”

“He, the gentleman whom I represent, wishes to study

the barbarians, sir, not enslave the poor devils into a

life of servitude. The request is purely in the interest of

science.”

The governor considered the appeal for a brief moment

and then asked, “This politician, what is his name?”

 Lord Craven measured carefully his words before

surrendering a reply. “Because of the nature of the

matter,” said he, “and the politically important status of

the man, he wishes to remain anonymous. You understand of

course.”

“Of course,” said the governor, “but what am I to

benefit from such an arrangement?”

“Sir, I can assure you——”

A woman, dressed in a beautiful white gown, slowly

walked past them, interrupting the conversation. The

Governor grasped her hand, kissed it and then bowed.

Over the edge of a small and decorative paper fan, she

glanced at the handsome and clean-shaven face of Lord

Craven. “Madam” said he, greeting her with a slight bow of

the head.

Her eyes smiled, and then she departed, joining a

gathering of several other women on the far side of the

hall.

Lord Craven, who had lost interest while his gaze

trailed the graceful female, reclaimed his thoughts and was

immediately brought back to the matter at hand. “Sir, I can

assure you,” said he, “that you will be generously rewarded

for any actions you deem necessary to secure the release of

a Khoi into my custody——preferably a female.”

 “I require no silver for my services, Lord Craven,”

spoke abruptly the Governor while observing his guests.

“However, I do have a more pressing need.”

“And what might that pressing need be, sir?”

“You say your associate is member of the House of

Commons?”

“Yes”

“A capable learned gentleman in good standing, I

gather?”

“That he is.”

“Excellent then, there is an investigation by one of

the judicial committees of the Upper House——have your man,

whoever he may be, make certain that it is withdrawn.”

“The gentleman of whom I speak has considerable

influence,” said Lord Craven. He rubbed his hairless chin

with his left hand, and his left eye began to twitch;

Unbeknownst to Governor Du Pré Alexander, a sure sign of a

deception to come. “If it is not dismissed,” he continued,

“I am confident the outcome of the matter will be more than

favorable.”

“Good. We have an agreement then.”

Hands were firmly shaken to seal the arrangement, and

as they were, the men were approached by Colonel Bird.

 “Ah, Mister Secretary,” greeted the governor. “Please

issue a directive authorizing Lord Craven to escort a Khoi

female to England for scientific study, in the care of——to

which fine institution was the gentleman received and

educated, Lord Craven?”

“Leyden College, sir”

“Ah yes, in the care of Leyden College”

Uncertain which man to address, the colonel looked

from one to the other, and warned with a deep harsh voice,

“But, exporting a Khoi native is a punishable offense.”

Governor Du Pré Alexander shrugged his shoulders and

unconstrained a long sigh. “Simply issue the appropriate

travel documents, Mister Secretary,” said he. “The woman

will not be sailing to London as a slave, but as a British

subject.”

“Yes sir,” acknowledged Secretary Bird, glancing at

Lord Craven. “And where shall I find this willing

individual so eager to abandon their homeland?”

“The London Missionary Society has an orphanage on the

frontier within the Boer settlements,” answered the

governor. “You will find plenty of suitable candidates

there. What’s more, the mission administrator has a debt

owed to me, so no objections should be raised.”

 ~~~~~~~

A rustic tradition developed early on as Boer society,

consisting of descendants of the early Dutch-speaking

settlers, was born on the frontiers of white settlement and

on the outskirts of civilization. Originally recruited by

the Dutch government, they settled on the Cape to help

establish a geographically limited outpost for the Dutch

East India Company. They were taxed heavily by the

government, and receiving no protection from the local

inhabitants, the Boer society sought independence from the

Dutch, and now the British.

After a day’s journey, accompanied by a contingent of

soldiers, a coach approached a mission in the midst of a

farming settlement, about a mile outside Duncan Village.

The building was fair-sized, standing back from the dirt

road, with a curving drive which was banked with high green

scrubs. It was painted white with red trimming with rows of

imported plants decorating all sides, surrounded by a white

wooden fence, and a large white cross adorned the roof.

A gray haired fellow, a stately looking thin-faced

individual, pruned wild roses in the rear of the structure

as children of the orphanage played about.

“Father Van Der Kemp?”

 The clergyman raised his head. “Yes, I am he.”

John Van Der Kemp had once served as an army officer

and received a medical degree from the University of

Edinburgh. His conversion followed the accidental drowning

of his wife and only child in a boating accident. A

rigorous opponent of slavery and advocate of the rights of

the indigenous populations, the clergyman was a very

unpopular individual with the majority of Europeans in the

Cape Colony.

“My name is Lord Craven, and may I state publicly, it

is an honor to meet an individual with such a reputation

for doing the work of God in the name of the British

Empire.”

Considering that the colonial government held the

missionary in such low regard, the praise was ill advised.

Its unattended consequence was that of a state of immediate

suspicion on the part of Van Der Kemp. He shrugged his

shoulders, and without giving Lord Craven so much as a

subsequent glance, the missionary continued on his knees

his pruning.

He asked simply, yet in a slight indignant tone, “What

is your business here, Mister Craven?”

 “I see, a man willing to forgo the unpleasantness of

idle speech——good. I will make known the purpose of my

call, then.”

Lord Crave drew an official looking document from his

coat, rolled, tied with a red ribbon, and stamped with the

certified seal of the colony administrator.

“I have here before me,” he announced, “in my

possession, an edict by order of the governor of the colony

of Cape of Good Hope as given to him by power of Prince

William the 5th of Orange.” He held, at level eye, the

document and slowly read, “You are hereby ordered to

surrender a Khoi female into my custody for transport to

England where she will be observed and studied under

reasonable humane conditions in the care of Christian

Leyden College.”

Father Van Der Kemp raised his head. “May I examine

that?” he asked, unconvinced of the authenticity of the

document.

“But, of course,” relied Lord Craven, plainly. “You

shall see that the document is it perfect order.”

He released the edict into the possession of the

clergyman, who then drew a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles

from his pocket, and placed them on his freckled nose. In

an attempt to bring the small writing into clearness so

that the legitimacy of it could be confirmed, Van Der Kemp

extended the paper further and then closer to his face.

“Follow me, Mister Craven,” said he, at last convinced of

no forgery and rising to his feet.

Two very fit and capable soldiers were motioned, by

Lord Craven, to accompany the clergyman and him while the

remaining men of the small military contingent, removed

from their saddles, waited in the courtyard.

The gentlemen took a path toward the side of the

church, up a steep set of swept stairs, and down a dark

hallway with many uninhabited rooms on each side. At the

end of the corridor, they came to a secured door,

whereupon, Van Der Kemp drew keys from his trousers and

opened it. “You would do well to communicate a message to

Governor Du Pré Alexander, said he. “Inform the colonial

administrator that I consider this newest atrocity as

payment in full.”

A young female sat on her knees, rocking back and

forth, in a faint corner.

“For her protection, we were forced to isolate the

girl from the rest of the children.”

Lord Craven looked surprised and a little shocked.

“Why, does she suffer an affliction of some sort?”

“Oh no, no, the girl is excellent physical condition.”

 “Then what burden is she which would warrant such

drastic measures?”

“They say she is cursed, the children do.”

“Cursed?”

“Yes, cursed. She was found walking alone outside a

long deserted village; a survivor of what was the result of

Europeans spreading death and destruction, no doubt.”

The corners of the mouth of Lord Craven twitched, and

a crooked grin tainted his business-like demeanor. “I see,”

said he. “Perhaps a change of setting will lift the spirits

of the young woman.”

The missionary knelt on one knee, and took hold of the

hand of the young woman. And with a loving smile, he stared

deeply into her dark eyes.

“By what name is she addressed?” asked Lord Craven.

“Sartje,” responded Van Der Kemp, without removing his

eyes away from her. “In her dialect, I believe it implies

princess, perhaps.” He helped her to her feet, and gathered

pieces of donated clothing into an old leather bag. “Be not

afraid my child,” he spoke, in her native tongue. “This

gentleman will accompany you to a land of new wonders and

opportunities.”

Sartje smiled, and her eyelids quivered as she glanced

toward Lord Craven. Van Der Kemp clutched her hands,

kissing each. And after a strapping young soldier had

lifted the heavy sack, which overflowed with clothing, they

headed back toward the front of the mission where the other

colonial soldiers lingered.

Before closing the door of the carriage, the

missionary kissed Sartje farewell. “Take care of the girl,”

he spoke to Lord Craven, “and may God watch over you during

your long journey.”

As the transport traveled down the dirt road, a Khoi

man, dressed in European clothing, escorted a small herd of

cattle across their path. Several soldiers assisted the

herdsman in moving his animals until the dirt road was

cleared.

Out the carriage window, Sartje poked her head. She

stared back at Van Der Kemp, who stood waving until the

last of the soldiers was out of view.

~~~~~~~

In the Bay of Tafel, the clipper ship Thurmandale

soaked up the early morning sun. Seagulls squawked noisily

on her bow as a deckhand threw handfuls of dried bread.

Captain Isaac Chester, the nephew of an admiral, stood at

the stern peering through a telescope at the approaching

rowboats.

He had entered the Royal Navy at an early age, and

having served most of his service aboard the ship of his

uncle, he quickly became lieutenant; and six years later, a

Post-Captain. For many years he sailed in the waters of

the West Indies and North American, until the war with

Spain brought him closer to home. During one key battle,

Captain Chester and the Mediterranean Fleet engaged Spanish

ships off the coast of Gibraltar. Led by Admiral Francis

Troubridge, the British fleet formed in a line of battle.

They were heavily out numbered, and unwilling to sacrifice

his crew, Captain Chester lagged behind. He was later

charged with indecisive fleet actions and of being unfit to

lead as an officer. It was then, that his naval career was

no more.

“Good heavens, there is a Khoi among them,” spoke the

grizzled captain. He drew a pocket watch from his vest and

glanced at it. “All hands on deck!” he barked.

“All hands on deck!” echoed the first officer.

Tea, silk and other textiles from China made up the

cargo of the utterly laden Thurmandale. She had stopped at

the colonial outpost only to replenish supplies and to take

on a few passengers.
 “Hoist main sails!”

“Hoist main sails!”

At eighteen knots, the Thurmandale was expected to

arrive at her destination in forty-two days. However, the

seas of the Cape of Storms, and the waters along the west

coast of Africa were unpredictable, and her qualified

captain and her skilled crew was well aware of the fact.

With the provisions and passengers aboard, the

Thurmandale immediately set sail for England.

On the third day of the voyage, the first officer

spotted dark clouds off the horizon. “Looks like we’re in

for a tad of foul weather,” said he, as a flock of seabirds

flew over the foremast.

“Yes, and from the looks of it, she’s brewing up quite

a tempest,” replied Captain Chester. “Go below and make

sure the cargo is tightly bound.”

“Maybe we should seek shelter inland, Sir.”

“She’ll be moving to fast before we made the coast,

Mister Smith. We’ll have to try to out run her, north.”

Facing heavy rain and gale force winds, hours later,

the Thurmandale began taking on water. With gusts up to

sixty knots, the ship bounced about like a cork from

twenty-five foot seas which washed several crew members

overboard.
 Below, Sartje grasped a small pouch and beads worn

around her neck, and closing her eyes, prayed in a whisper.

A large barrel of Indian tea rolled against her, knocking

her to the floor. And when the ship pitched again, the

unbound container attacked a servant of Lord Carven,

crushing him to death against the ships’ hull.

On deck, the crew battled to save the vessel while

Captain Chester barked out orders. “Man the sails! Keep

her to the wind, Mister Reynolds!”

The storm cleared as quickly as it had come about, and

forty three days later, welcomed by the pungent odors of

London and other large towns, the shores of England loomed

in sight.

~~~~~~~

Small boats slipped furtively from the coast, and,

approaching the ships, their crews offered to transport

anything that was subject to import taxation and store it

safely and secretly when the owners were in England. Naval

frigates or small warships with one tier of guns, on

occasion, offered this service.

The men in the boats looked a rascally crew and were

almost certainly smugglers, but the sailors of His

Majesty's Navy looked even worse. Most passengers thought

it better to keep their dutiable articles and try a little

bribery, later.

The Thurmandale, with passengers of about twenty

lining the rails of the clipper, entered the River Thames.

Houses built one brick thick and made of the first earth

that came to hand, rowed the mouth of the river.

A deck hand ceased his chores, after noticing

astonishment in the faces of a few. Said he, “Inside the

pitiful homes, it is neglected as the outside.”

“I will admit, I have never seen such squalor,” said,

a burly, middle aged woman.

The sight so disturb the woman, her gentleman husband

who was some twenty years her elder, felt it necessary to

deliver around his wife’s shoulder for comfort, an arm.

“And it is even worse as we near the docks,” warned

the sailor.
 Chapter Two

England

Travelers, those that arrived safely upon the shores

of England, had often spent days or even weeks upon their

journey. After traveling long distances by coach to the

port of embarkation, they often spent tedious hours waiting

for the wind to rise, to change, or to abate before setting

sail.

Most ships were small and miserable, and as a rule,

passengers were required to bring their food with them.

They suffered the miseries of sea sickness, and may have

been bruised and battered by storms. Often they arrived in

a disgruntled frame of mind, ready to find fault with

everything and everyone. Much of the conversation among

them, if indeed they were in any condition to talk, was

about the custom houses, and the chances of evading its

officials.

Bribery was universal. A German clergyman, who one

might think would have had a few scruples, paid six

shillings to get his luggage unexamined through customs.

His only regret was that the transaction had cost him as

much.

Occasionally, a pocket as well as luggage was

searched, but it was possible with the aid of a guinea or

so, to avoid close examination if the officers were assured

that the things were for ones own personal use.

A large man complained to other weary travelers behind

him, “English officials can not be compared to the French,

who know how to combine politeness with the exercise of

their rights,” said he.

It came at no surprise that he would, later, have

extreme difficulty with the officials.

Although officials heavily scrutinized five jackets

and silk shirts he had purchased from a trader at the Cape,

the standing of Lord Craven was well-known so he and Sartje

got their luggage through customs without any bribery.

Outside the custom house was the worst of slums in the

neighborhood of the London docks. There were the poor,

thieves, cut-throats, prostitutes, and pickpockets waiting

to prey upon any foreigner.

The jostling mobs, most watching sailors fighting in a

ring with supporters spurring them on, frighten Sartje.

Lord Craven held her hand tightly; and his servants

followed, awkwardly, carrying the luggage.

Further along the docks, a small boat was boarded.

The waves drove the vessel away from the ladder causing

Sartje to lose her balance. The Captain took her into his

arms as she fell in the skiff among the rowers.

Both banks of the Thames River were covered with the

filthiest erections near the docks; old stables or the

miserable huts of fishermen and watermen. Contrarily, on

the outskirts of the city one would have been gratified by

sights of pleasant suburban houses set in gardens. These

were the residences of London citizens, where they were

sometimes used as weekend resorts.

The slums, however, had begun to invade the country.

In some areas, squalid houses were being built close to the

pleasant dwellings of the citizens of London. Even the

summer residence of Lord Craven, along the Thames, had some

very unpleasant neighbors. Heaps of cinders, filth and

ordure from the great city were collected outside it, some
of which went to manure the market gardens, but much

remained to pollute the atmosphere.

~~~~~~~

Tired, disgusted and disgruntled, at last they reached

respectable lodging. Lord Craven ordered a servant to

prepare a landau and horses for the next day’s Journey to

Windsor Berkshire, to the estate of Doctor Benjamin Howard.

And the next day, Lord Craven delivered the Khoi woman into

his presence.

One of five children of a wealthy merchant, Doctor

Howard had a particularly interest in mathematics and

chemistry while educated at the High School of Edinburgh.

Afterwards, he attended the University of Edinburgh as a

“student of humanity”. Later, he became a physician

assistant at sixteen years of age and received a doctor of

medicine degree from Leyden College three years later. The

influx of immigrants and their hash treatment forced him to

run for a seat in parliament.

A few years past and with countless sessions in the

learning of proper English, Sartje became more and more

confident with her new life. With the permission of Doctor

Howard, she was allowed to visit the city accompanied by a

man servant.

A favorite place to call upon was a hat shop, just

south of Melbourne Street, in the London Borough of Tower

Hamlets. It was located in one of the worst parts of the

White Chapel district and seldom had customers of the

social status of that of Sartje. Being that it catered to

poor immigrants or former slaves, at the place of business,

she hoped to meet an individual from her native land.

The proprietor of the shop, Jack Redbridge, a thin-

faced, slightly gray-haired, solemn-like way of talking

fellow, treated her well. His previous occupation was that

of a sea captain, and he had visited the Cape many times

while transporting cargo to and from the Far East. The

remarkable fellow loved South Africa, and had planned to

spend his last years there until back and leg injuries,

obtained during a violent squall off the coast of India,

shorten his sailing career and robbing him of his

notability. Sometimes he visited the interior of the

continent and made many friends with the local inhabitants

including the Khoi.

One gray afternoon, while Mister Redbridge revealed to

Sartje, in a backroom after closing, a new shipment of hats

from Spain, a small red butterfly with large black antennae

flew through an open window. It frightened the Khoi woman

so, that she nervously suggested they move back toward the

front of the establishment.

The insect fluttered about until landing on an old

American straw hat. Jack cuffed his hands, slowing

approaching it.

“Please do not touch it nor let it touch you,” said

Sartje, in a distressful tone. “My people have known that

kind to be cursed. It drinks the blood of animals during

the hunters’ moon.”

She clutched with both hands a small pouch, attached

to a necklace. And half dazed, with terror in her eyes,

moved away a few steps.

“It is nothing except a butterfly, Sartje,” said

Jack. “There is nothing to fear.”

He captured it, and then opened his hand, revealing a

red-winged insect with a usually long and pointed

proboscis. “It will not harm you, see?” said Jack.

For a moment it was examined closely by the shop

owner, while Sartje retreated several more steps.

“Hmmm, this species is unfamiliar——probably came to

British shores as a stowaway aboard a merchant ship,” said

Jack. As he walked over to the window to release it, his

finger was punctured by the sharp tongue of the butterfly

and then it fluttered to it’s escape. “Gracious,” he spoke,

“looks as though it was not pleased to be handled so.”

He watched as blood slowly trickled down between his

fingers. Somewhat concerned, Jack lifted an old cloth lying

atop a stack of unopened boxes, and wiped the thick crimson

away.

Sartje stared at him, horrified. “Demon, away demon!”

said she, in her native language. A quick retreat from the

establishment of Mister Redbridge was her preference, and

it was done.

Jack finished wiping away the blood and gave chase,

frantically calling the name of the Khoi woman. And when he

had reached the outside of the store, he stood there

despondent; for the carriage, in which Sartje had arrived,

had traveled far along the cobblestone street.

That night, in the back of the store, the proprietor

tossed and turned in his bunk. Strange and vivid visions

danced in his dreams. He awoke drenched in sweat, and

decided to take a walk in the cool night air to clear his

head.

A dense London fog hung over the city, making it

difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. The smell of

animal manure and rotting garbage made breathing almost

unbearable. Jack, hearing voices and hallucinating,

stumbled along Durward Street in the White Chapel district.

Dress in the scantiest clothing, prostitutes offered

their services along a brick wall. Some whistled at

potential customers and insulted those that rejected them.

One such female, a scantily dressed young woman, assumed

that Jack was severely intoxicated and therefore saw an

opportunity of theft.

“Good evening, sir,” she slurred, “Out for walk in the

night air, are you now.”

Jack mumbled words she, nor anyone else, could have

comprehended.

The woman led him by the hand down Buck’s Row, toward

a gated stable. There, in the darkness, as she attempted to

explore his pockets, a struggle ensued. Jack fell to the

ground, and groped for a weapon to fend her off when she

persisted. A metal object, about ten inches long, lying a

few feet away touched the tips of his fingers and it was

seized.

A sharp razor pierced the thick air and the throat of

the woman with ease. The prostitute clutched the wound, and

with massive amounts of blood squirting between her thick

fingers, she stumbled ten yards before falling.

 The shop owner lifted himself, and with the weapon

still firmly gripped in his hand, he knelt besides her. Be

it slowly, blood still ran, and now the woman lay gasping

for air. Her mouth released a quiet gurgling word, to which

Mr. Redbridge lean to give an ear. She twice coughed,

immediately covering the face and hand of Jack with thick

crimson.

Jack peered down the dark back street, at the London

Hospital two hundred yards away. Panic overcame him, so he

ran back to the shop as fast as he could. And after

arriving, he sat for a long time staring at his red stained

fingers.

The demise of the woman seemed to strengthen the owner

of the hat shop; as if the force of life was being

absorbed, giving him a sense of unfathomable power. Her

blood was licked from his fingers, and Mr. Redbridge, he

took pleasure of it.

~~~~~~~

It was soon evident that Sartje aged slower than other

British subjects. Examined countless times with no

definitive results, the lack of evidence within her blood

or brown skin, for that matter, led some in the scientific

community to suggest that, surely, the mythical fountain of

youth must exist somewhere near the site of her birth, the

Cape of Good Hope.

At a scientific conference in Cambridge, where Sartje

was introduced, the debate over the social and medical

implications of such a discovery was feverous.

“Mister Thomas, Mister Thomas, please sit down!”

demanded the conference magistrate.

“Gentlemen and fellow men of science—―surely I come to

you, honorably, without malice or deceit,” said the wiry

looking scientist, sinking in his chair. “A notable

physician with impeccable credentials sits before you to

verify all claims.”

The claim of Mister Thomas, that the fountain of youth

was without doubt, fact, had caused quite a stir. The men,

of about thirty-eight, in the conference hall, chattered

among themselves to which the magistrate twice slammed his

gavel, interrupting the discourse. “We must have order!”

said he. “Now, Doctor Howard—―it is said that you, a

notable man of science, have in your possession evidence of

that which our esteemed colleague professes.”

Doctor Howard slowly rose from his chair. “Indeed,”

said he. He signaled with a nod to his aide, an eager,

fair-minded chap, who left the room for a moment, and then

returned with a beautiful woman.

Sartje had been provider for quite well, and she had

become quite comfortable with the British way of life. In

the years since she had arrived, ten to be exact, she had

learned the English language, and reaped the benefits of

the upper-class status of the good doctor.

A dark green full length coat, trimmed with fur, fit

her well. It was straight cut, belted at the waist, and

sported a broad cape like collar. Underneath it, a white

silk dress was visible, as the pelisse was worn open at the

front.

Her hair was of an elaborate and striking style that

leaned to one side and was partially covered by a modest

hat. Everyone rose when she entered the room.

Doctor Howard stood by her and spoke, “This woman, who

is of the African continent, is the source of the evidence

in which you sir, and my fellow colleagues, would dismiss

as deception or inaccurate,” he address a scientist. “I ask

that you—―no I beseech thee and any man here, to question

the girl so that she may verify the findings which I have

submitted this day.”

“Is de young girl competent an’ able to spake

clearly?” asked the only Irish member of the conference.

 “Indeed, and her command of the English language is of

a noticeable improvement than the dialect in which you’re

accustomed, Mister Flanagan,” answered Doctor Howard.”

The room was overrun by laughter.

With a half smile upon his face, the magistrate banged

his gavel thrice, quieting the men of science. “Please

continue, Doctor Howard,” said he.

“Thank you, sir. First, I believe an introduction is

in order. She is called Sartje,” he announced with a quick

glance toward the beautiful woman, “and was once a member

of the Khoi, a primitive people found near the region of

the southern tip of Africa. Sartje, please greet the

gentlemen in you native tongue.”

She slowly stepped forward, holding a white

handkerchief. It was twisted and untwisted around her

fingers repeatedly by Khoi woman, and an uncomfortable

tightness devoured her from the inside. Sartje wiped the

sweat from her brow, an act that did not go unnoticed.

“Fear not child,” whispered Doctor Howard, softly

capturing her arm and looking into her eyes. “These are

honorable men who wish no ill-will upon you.

The words were reassured Sartje. She took a deep

breath and stepped forward, and the nervous tension inside

gradually settled.
 “I am Sartje,” she said in Khoisan, a native language

which used clicks for certain consonants to distinguish the

meaning of the smallest posited structural unit. “And this

land is my new home.”

“Now repeat those very words in the English language,”

said Doctor Howard.

Sartje cleared her throat and then repeated the words

with a perfect British dialect, for all to hear.

“Good. Sartje, what is the place of your birth?”

Doctor Howard asked.

“The land of the first people——the place you call

Africa.”

A member of the conference, a tall gentleman, wearing

dark spectacles, sprang from his place. “This is outrages,”

he interrupted. “Surely, Doctor Howard has manipulated the

poor girl; training her as would a, a master would train a

common canine or an animal keeper would train a chimpanzee.”

“I agree,” bellowed another. “What we have witness,

thus far, can not be scientifically proven nor disproved as

being nothing but, but a parlor trick, or, at the very

least substandard training, for that matter.”

The room was a buzz with chatter.

 “Gentlemen, gentlemen, order!” bellowed the conference

magistrate, striking, hard, the gavel. “Please, let the

Honorable Doctor Howard speak.”

Doctor Howard thanked the magistrate, and then turned

his attention back toward the Khoi woman. “Sartje, what is

your age, my child?” he questioned.

Nervously clasping and unclasping her soft hands, she

answered, “Before I came to this land, I had seen fourteen

hunters’ moons in the night sky. The——”

“The child refers to the harvest moon,” interrupted

Doctor Howard, and addressing his colleagues, “fourteen

moons, fourteen years of age to be exact. Sartje, please,

carry on.”

“The men of my clan chased large herds of animals with

spears and bows and arrows by its light,” she continued.

“And after a few days, the animals go home to the north.”

The good doctor lifted his thumbs to the straps of his

black suspenders, and his manner took on the likeness of

that of a barnyard roster. “The large herds of animals——

wildebeest, Gentlemen, wildebeest,” he crowed. “They

migrate yearly across the plains of Africa, a well

documented fact. And since her arrival here in Britain, the

girl has not left my presence in nearly twenty five years.”

 One again, the room was a buzz with chatter. The

magistrate stuck his gavel twice. “Order, Order!” bellowed

he.

“Are we to believe this child, who is clearly all but,

but thirteen years of age, has lived for forty-three or

more?” asked a conference attendee.

“Saints above, the fellow’s a bampot,” yelled the

Irishman.

Another outburst was prevented by the magistrate; for

he quickly sprang from his chair, and banged his gavel

hard. “This conference will be absent of insults, Mister

Flanagan,” he roared. He slowly and deliberately, over his

wire framed glasses, eyed the participants of the

conference so that the words he spoke next would be

absolutely understandable to each. “Personal abuse or

attacks upon ones character, mendacity, and or demogery are

all prohibited under house rules and will not be tolerated

under any circumstance!”

He glared in the face, or so it seemed, of every

scientist that sat there in silence. And when he was

satisfied his warning was taken to heart, he took his seat

and spoke again. “Now, Doctor Howard, do you have further

evidence to support your claim?”

“Indeed I have, Magistrate,” replied Doctor Howard.

 He held high in his hand, a set of papers for everyone

to see. “I have here, in my possession, sworn affidavits of

reputable men. This document, signed by the former Governor

of the Cape, Du Pré Alexander and his assistant Colonel

Christopher Bird, authorizes passage of a Khoi female, by

name, aboard the Thurmandale. And this article represents

the ships manifest of passengers and cargo in which her

name appears.”

Doctor Howard led Sartje to a chair, and motioned his

assistant to bring in a supporting witness.

The past twenty-five years had been cruel to Lord

Craven. As a young man, he had been fit and full of life.

Some said it was the excessive social festivities and

womanizing that stole his handsome features, and robbed his

youthful spirit. But like many in London, because of the

persistent squalor, he too had been consumed by unknown

diseases that ravage the city.

He slowly shuffled into the conference hall with the

aide of a cane, his eyes rarely leaving the sight of the

dark wooden floor. A servant of Doctor Howard escorted him

by the arm.

“We are honored by your presence Lord Craven,” said

the magistrate. “The accomplishments of you and your

colleagues in the House of Commons have been quite

extraordinary during recent sessions——especially the

passing of the public health legislation.”

“Thank you,” said Lord Craven, as he slowly lowered

himself into a chair.

“Welcome Sir,” greeted Doctor Howard. “I will begin by

asking simple questions. You may add any pertinent

information or comment at your discretion. Now, let’s

proceed.

“Are you familiar with the woman that sits before you?”

“I am.”

“Good. In your indisputable recollection, where did

you first meet the girl?”

“I first became acquainted with Sartje at an

orphanage, on the frontier in a Boer settlement not far

from the Cape of Africa.”

“What year?”

“Pardon me?”

“What was the year in which you first saw this woman?”

“It was in the year of our Lord, 1838.”

The room hummed with soft chatter.

“Lord Craven, how did you come to meet Sartje?”

“I was requested by an individual, who to this very

day wishes to remain anonymous, to acquire a female

inhabitant from Africa for scientific study. The governor

of the Cape recommended that I visit a certain orphanage

where a missionary, a misguided fellow in the area of

politics, thought the girl would suffice because she was

without companionship.”

“Companionship?” asked Doctor Howard, surprised.

“Yes, the child was without acquaintances and was

absent any attention due to rumors of her being cursed,”

replied Lord Craven.

“Cursed, you say?”

“Yes, cursed,” said Lord Craven. “I, of course,

discarded the rumors as being nothing but what they were.

However, Father Van Der Kemp later confided in me that an

old woman had recognized the girl as a playmate from her

youth. It seemed highly improbable, and any reasonable

person would have thought the same. He concluded the

memories of the woman were dimmed by confusion brought on

by old age. But as I sit here and observe the girl, who has

aged little since I retrieved her from the orphanage, I am

convinced that, that which was told to Father Van Der Kemp

by the old woman is accurate.”

Professor Henry Herschel, a biologist and ordained

Church of England clergyman who taught Darwin at Cambridge

College stood to address his colleagues.

 Born in Denbign County at Foxhall, his family estate,

as a young man he was educated at Oxford and fared so well

in the sciences and engineering he was given the position

as physician to the Duke of Norfolk, who served as

chancellor.

Reverend Herschel was a God fearing man. His belief

was that science and dogma was just opposite sides of the

same shilling. “Then let it be considered that indeed the

girl is cursed,” said he.

Another gentleman spoke, “This conference recognizes

facts, not ridicules superstition. Perhaps Professor

Herschel would prefer to consult a representative of the

church.”

“Perhaps,” said Reverend Herschel. “Most superstition

has a reasonable basis which is clouded by mystery and the

fairest of all experiences is the mysterious. And you will

hardly find one among us, of scientific minds, without a

particular religious feeling. But it is different than the

ordinary man. For the latter, God is a being from whose

care one hopes to benefit and whose punishment one fears.

But the scientist is possessed by the sense of cause-and-

effect relationships. To him, there is nothing divine about

morality. It is a purely human affair. His religious

feelings take the form of rapturous amazement at the

harmony of natural law, which reveals in itself an

intelligence of superiority. Compared with it, all

systematic thinking and acting of human beings is an

utterly insignificant reflection. This feeling guides a

scientist life and work and is, beyond question, closely

akin to that which has possessed the religious geniuses of

all ages. So, the girl may or may not be cursed. But as

scientists, who have themselves seen an intelligence of

superiority revealed nightly in the sky, shall we discount

what is before our very eyes? We, as educated men, search

for clarity in the wondrous designs of God, and when he

reveals it to us through gifts that all men have inherited,

some more than others, a prideful and selfish proclamation

is proclaimed. They boast; we have looked into the mind of

God. Therefore we must be of superior intelligence. This

day I say unto you——a time will come when false piousness

will no longer satisfy arrogant men. They will not be

content to be godlike. Men will attempt to recreate the

stars and even life itself. Blinded by arrogance and

selfishness, while publicly denying the existence of God,

they will desire secretly to be gods.”

“Then how, Professor Herschel, shall men progress?” an

attendee asked. “Shall we worship the sun and moon as our

ancestor once did? Shall we let diseases run rampant among

civilization?”

“It is my belief that men shall never know answers to

all mysteries and all mysteries can not be solved by

universal causation,” answered the professor. “It is a

question of simplicity really. Is it possible to create

something from nothing? Even the insane would say no.

Therefore someone created it; someone so incomprehensible

that man lacks the mental facilities to phantom such a

being. Our only hope is to know him through observable and

measurable wonders. But as scientist, at the very least, we

must acknowledge the possibility of mysteries no man was

blessed to comprehend or rationalize. Look into the night

sky. Are you to believe that is the best that can be done?

Surely the creator of the stars and planets is capable of

so much more. And like the air we breathe, the sunlight

that warms us, there must be many more unobservable

marvels.”

The words of Professor Herschel were discomforting to

most of the attendees of the conference. There was validity

to his argument and it was persuasive, but the consequences

of a merger between science and religion would invite

unimaginable abuses from the church. It had persecuted

learned men throughout history and no one wanted to revisit

those days.

Doctor Howard dismissed Lord Craven, cutting his

presentation short. He had expected some skepticism and

even prepared himself for suggestions of exploratory

medical procedures to determine the cause of Sartje’s

condition. But the spiritual ramifications surprised him.

He gathered his papers, Sartje and his servant, and then

quickly left the conference in his carriage. The trip back

to Windsor Berkshire was long and sobering.

Doctor Howard looked at the Khoi female as she stared

out the window of the coach.

“Sartje,” he interrupted her. “I’ve considered your

condition carefully and I believe England is not the proper

place for you, my child.”

“Why? What are you implying?”

“It is no longer safe in England. There are powerful

men who still perceive the world in the old ways.

“I am not afraid, Doctor Howard.”

“No, I believe you are not. But I am afraid for you,

my child,” replied Doctor Howard, resting his hand on her

knee. “These men would see you as an abomination because of

your ageless appearance. It was an error in judgment to

announce you at the conference during these troubling

times. There are those that will give an account to the

authorities, and The Church of England would surely

imprison you or far worse.”

“Then I shall hide from them——beneath the stables just

as I did as a child, remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” Doctor Howard chuckled. “It took

the servants and me hours to find you.”

“Then, it is agreed. I will hide in the cellar.”

“No Sartje, not in the cellar. I am sending you to a

new country——a place where you will be safe. I made

preparations in case something went horribly wrong at the

conference and before we departed, I dispatched a servant

to London to confirm the arrangement with a dear friend who

will provide provision for passage aboard a merchant ship

to America. It will depart tomorrow.”

“But Doctor Howard, I know no one in this America,”

said Sartje. “How shall I endure?”

“I will make certain that you are financially

protected. And it is best that I not send you to anyone

familiar. The authorities will question me regarding your

whereabouts and I will tell them, truthfully, I do not know

your whereabouts. Now, rest and worry no more. Tonight you

will gather your belongings and I shall give you

instructions to follow when you arrive at your new home.”

 Sartje and Doctor Howard hugged, and both wept.

They arrived at Windsor Berkshire late at night, in

the glow of a full moon which hung brightly over maple and

blossoming cherry trees. Their familiar fragrances

permeated the interior of the carriage, welcoming the weary

travelers.

“Replace these animals with fresh horses,” said Doctor

Howard to the driver. “Then you shall depart for London

immediately.”

The servants rushed about, packing luggage full of

Sartje’s things. Due to the urgency of it all, Doctor

Howard instructed them to leave many of her clothing

behind. He hoped once the investigation was ongoing and

suspicion had diminished, he would be able to send Sartje,

the remainder of her belongings aboard a vessel.

After the carriage was full with her luggage, Sartje

and Doctor Howard sat down on her bed. Speechless, they

held hands, neither wanting to say farewell.

“You have been like a daughter to me,” Doctor Howard

finally spoke. He began to weep. Sartje wiped a tear from

his face with her soft fingers.

“And you, like a father to me,” she said. “I will

never forget you.”

 “Neither will I forget you my child,” replied Doctor

Howard, regaining his composure. He handed her a small

satchel with pieces of gold and silver inside it. “This

will allow you to purchase accommodations and food for

several years so that a new life will be less of a burden.”

The good doctor kissed the forehead of Sartje, and

tearfully led her out to the carriage.

Weeping, the child of a maidservant handed her a doll.

“Molly shall keep you company,” said she.

“And I shall keep Molly company,” said Sartje,

kneeling to address the child and awarding a hug. She rose.

“Thank you, thank you all. I have felt more at home here

than in my ancestral land, and I shall miss you.”

She hugged each servant and then lifted herself into

the carriage.

“The driver has knowledge of the captain and the

vessel you will be boarding. Obey his instructions

implicitly,” said Doctor Howard. “And address a letter to

me in five years so that I may know you are well.”

“Yes sir, said Sartje. They hugged a final time

through the opening of the carriage, and then it headed out

the steel gates of the estate.

 The driver steered the carriage toward the London

docks as fast as it could travel. Grasping anything that

steadied her, Sartje frantically bounced about inside.

~~~~~~~

Tiers upon tiers of vessels, scores of masts,

labyrinths of tackle, idle sails, splashing oars, gliding

rowboats, lumbering barges, sunken piles with ugly lodgings

for water rats within their muddy discolored nooks; church

steeples, warehouses, house-roofs, arches, bridges, casks,

cranes, boxes, horses, coaches, idlers, and hard laborers,

all were jumble together.

Little steamboats dashed up and down the river

continuously. Mister Edmund Doray, a clean shaven,

diminutive gentleman, stood at the stern of the St. George

staring out, just above waters’ surface, at seagulls

fighting over scraps of fish.

He took a deep draw from a fancy pipe. Grey smoke rose

from chimneys atop of box houses along the waterway.

Forming the mainstay of the peasant’s diet and boiled

slowly over the hearth fire, aromas of running pottages

filled the salty air. Over the horizon, the barely visible

sun, slowly stole the dawn.

 Born in Lyme Regis, a coastal town of Dorset, Mister

Doray spent most of his early life at sea and in the

Americas. Now a successful merchant and philanthropist, he

operated a ship building business in Massachusetts.

He was appalled by the many abandoned homeless

children living in the streets of London. And assisted by

influential politicians and wealthy citizens like Doctor

Howard, he obtained a Royal Charter establishing the

Hospital for the Maintenance and Education of Deserted

Young Children.

Captain Quigley, the commander of the St. George

approached. “Fine morning to you sir, and my deepest

apologies,” said he, extending a warm hand. “My first

officer failed to inform me of your arrival.”

“No fault lies with your second-in-command, replied

Mister Doray, shaking the hand of the captain, with a firm

grip. “I’m sure he is a fine officer. Besides, I came

aboard unannounced. It has been my experience that one

receives a more accurate impression when circumstances are

unexpected.”

“I agree, and I myself have conducted numerous

surprise inspections and drills while in harbor, and out on

the high seas. It improves the concentration of the men,

and discourages complacency,” said the captain.

 “Mister Quigley, I knew my choice of the commander of

the St. George was a wise one.”

“Thank you sir, will you be aboard her when she sails?”

“Oh no, I have far more pressing needs in England than

in America. My affairs in London alone require further

oversight and scrutiny.”

“I see”

“However, a passenger of a special interest may be

boarding before you sail. She is a female of native African

heritage. Where is your ships manifest?”

“I shall retrieve it, sir” said the captain. He went

below, followed by Mister Doray, and removed the passenger

ledger from his desk. “This contains the travelers already

on board, and those that are yet to arrive,” said he,

handing the list to Mr. Doray.

“Michaell Delany, John Butler, Charles Quigley, Mary

Kemp, Terrance Quigley, Samuel Swallow, Larance Quigley,

Kate Quigley, William Welsh,” Mr. Doray read aloud. “This

manifest must consist of well over 120 names.” He scanned

thru several more pages. “It also contains a number of

passengers with Quigley surnames. Relatives of yours

Captain?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir.”

 Mr. Doray eyes scanned the remaining pages with

concern. It was difficult to run several businesses on

different sides of the Atlantic Ocean, simultaneously, so

finding trustworthy employees was his greatest worry.

When he was satisfied that no deception was at hand,

he closed the ledger and placed it back into the outstretch

hand of the captain.

“Never-the-less,” he continued, “the female passenger

is to be given attention afforded that of a member of

London high society. She is to be considered a guest and

not one shilling shall be collected from her.”

“Who is this woman? The daughter of a politician or

royalty from another land, perhaps?” asked the captain.

“That is of no concern to you,” Mister Doray replied,

with an air of petulance. “However, “Her name is Sartje.

Inquire not about her background or standing whilst she is

aboard the St. George. She will not be disembarking in New

York. After all other passengers have left the ship, set

sail for Louisiana and then assist the woman in locating

reasonable housing after you arrive in the port of Fort St.

Philip. Travel by way of carriage to the Land Office of

Louisiana in New Orleans and present Robert Callahan, the

head clerk, this document.”

 A paper from inside the pocket of his jacket was

drawn, and delivered to the outstretched hand of Captain

Quigley who immediately read it.

“Captain Bartholomew Quigley has appeared before me

and made oath upon the Holy Evangelist of Almighty God that

the person named Sartje amounting to the number of one was,

by him, transported to Louisiana in the ship St. George of

London, and that neither himself nor any person for him by

his consent, privity or knowledge has made use their or any

of their rights for taking up of land according to the

condition of plantations——Given under my hand the first day

of October 1888.”

The document was signed Mister Edmund Doray, Trustee

Louisiana Territories.

“The paper—―is it a transfer of property?” the captain

asked.

“Indeed it is,” replied Mister Doray. “And after the

transaction is complete you will accompany the woman to a

certain property outside the town of Baton Rouge where you

will find modest accommodations which will become her new

home. Afterwards, sail the St. George to Boston and await

further instructions. Is this understood?”

“Yes Sir,” said Captain Quigley, nodding his head.

 “Good. With regards to the woman, your activities will

remain secret. Notate nothing in the logs regarding this

matter. What is the time for your scheduled departure?”

“The provisions and all passengers should be on board

at ten o’clock,” replied the captain.

“Postpone it, and give any reason except awaiting the

arrival of an additional traveler if the woman has not

appeared at that time. If she is absent at twelve O’clock,

you may sail without her.”

“Yes sir,” said Captain Quigley.

The men shook hands, and then Mr. Doray left the St.

George by way of a long boardwalk, leading to the pier. He

passed several passengers as he went, tipping his hat,

welcoming each, and wishing them safe journey.

Several hours later, Sartje’s carriage arrived. And

with very few exceptions, the driver gave many of the same

instructions to Captain Quigley as Mister Doray had done

earlier that morn.

The First Officer made certain that private quarters

was assigned, and word was passed amongst the crew of the

St. George, that with the exception of her personal

steward, the mysterious woman was not to be, on no account,

disturbed during the journey.

 When the carriage was unloaded and baggage of the

madam brought aboard the ship, it departed the London

harbor for America.