"Life never gives us what we want at the moment that we consider appropriate. Adventures do occur, but not punctually." E.M. Forster, A Passage to India
----
XIX.
It was difficult to remain feeling embarrassed and silly when sailing past some of the most beautiful islands that Eliza had ever seen. Such was a colour green that she had never before seen! And the sea! The sea was the bluest, clearest water there ever was, and Eliza was quite convinced that Eden must have looked like the Caribbean.
But whenever the captain would actively avoid her, she was swiftly reminded of her own folly. Eliza was not trying to seek him out either, but she wished he would have come to her to mend things, and to tell her that she had caused no permanent damage.
But he had not, and only Eliza's imagination could run with theories as to why. She had asked him if he was tortured, drowning. Only now in hindsight could she understand how careless and nosy it was to ask such questions so bluntly to a man she really did not know the first thing about.
He was stoic and silent, and rarely expressed an emotion on his stern face. Something must have happened to make him this way, something terrible. To take no enjoyment from the world spoke of such irreparable heartbreak.
Eliza wondered if the captain ever had a sweetheart. Perhaps a lady, maybe even a wife, ashore, who was not faithful. Who spurned him for another. Or maybe she died. No, Eliza decided. She didn't die. He did not seem like a man in mourning. There was anger inside of him. She had experienced it many times in her short tenure aboard the Atlantis. The captain had had his heart broken, Eliza was quite sure of it.
Only would sort of woman would ever leave him? Captain Buckley was loyal, and noble, and fiercely protective of those in his charge. And he was handsome. Very handsome. She was not so bashful that she could not admit that. The intensity of his dark stare stirred something in her stomach that she had never felt before.
What a foolish woman, indeed, Eliza thought, before immediately ordering herself never to bring up the subject with the captain again.
The poor captain had been injured quite enough, without Eliza sticking her nose into his business.
It took a week of sailing to travel from the British Virgin Islands to the port of Kingston, Jamaica. Eliza had been awestruck for several miles as the ship sailed towards the port. The sheer vastness of the green hills was breathtaking, and Eliza had seen miles and miles of white sand, such a colour that she had only seen in the Caribbean. English beaches could not compare.
Just like the British Virgin Islands, there were dozens of ships at port in Kingston, most of which appeared to be similar ships to the Atlantis. Eliza supposed that they must have been merchant ships as well.
Eliza recalled that Jamaica was home to some of the largest sugar plantations in the world, and that these ships must be responsible for transporting the sugar all around the world. Eliza noticed a few of the ships flying British flags, though many remained neutral.
***
The men were just as excited to dock in Jamaica as they had been at the previous port. They were speaking animatedly about dishes that Eliza had never heard of, copious amounts of alcohol they intended to drink, and the names of certain women whom they longed to see.
Eliza intended to follow them, though willing to try the food, she would explore as they indulged in drink and women. She was certain there would be much to see, and many people to meet.
"Eliza."
Eliza froze just as she was about to step onto the ramp that led down onto the dock. He had not spoken to her for a week and she had not been prepared.
She turned around to see Captain Buckley standing not five feet from her. "I will accompany you," he said in a firm tone.
"Oh, really, that is not necessary. I was going to stay with the crew for the most part," she replied, in a much more flustered tone than she had intended.
"They will be inebriated in ten minutes," he said disapprovingly.
"Don't you have business to attend to?"
"It can wait."
"Aren't you angry with me?" Eliza appealed.
"Perpetually. About what in particular are you referring to?" It almost sounded like a joke. Almost.
It was as though he was finding amusement in watching Eliza squirm. No matter how he felt, he was not going to leave her protection to a gaggle of drunken sailors. Eliza could argue against the need for protection, but even she could admit that trouble seemed to find her. She had nearly drowned herself at the last port, after all.
"You know what I am referring to, Captain. It is why you haven't spoken to me all week," Eliza said remorsefully.
Captain Buckley came up beside her and stepped up onto the ramp. Looking down at her with an unreadable gaze, he sighed. "We will never speak of it again," he said firmly, in a way that told Eliza what she already knew. Never to ask him a personal question. "And the same can be said for you, as well," he added. "You have not spoken to me all week either." He then walked swiftly down the ramp and down onto the wooden wharf.
Eliza, with mouth agape, quickly followed him. She waited while he paid the harbourmaster, and then she walked beside him into the port town of Kingston.
The first thing that hit her was she smell. It was a mixture of seafood and spice, and it was altogether mouth-watering.
Eliza was then welcomed by a sea of bright colours. The colour of everything was almost intoxicating. Every person was walking about wearing a bright coloured garment. Women wore long, vivid dresses, with their hair tied up in matching scarves. The men were no different, as they wore brightly coloured, short sleeve garments that were sure to be a relief in the hot weather.
Eliza was very hot underneath her shirt, breeches and undergarments. Her face was sure to be glistening with sweat.
Captain Buckley seemed to know his way around, and he led Eliza to a market street, which was bustling with people selling their goods, and cooks selling their food. There was so much to see that Eliza could have been easily overwhelmed were she not so excited.
Among the stalls and the many, many people, a particular shop caught her eye. On a makeshift table were several bolts of beautifulfabric. Eliza hurried over to it, flanked closely by Captain Buckley.
It was bright pink, and upon placing her hands on the bolt, she could feel that the navy, gold and green patterns were woven into the fabric. The solid pink was decorated in navy swirl shapes that reminded Eliza of the movement of the ocean. Gold and green boxes created a patterned border.
"Do you like it?" Captain Buckley asked her.
"Oh, yes," remarked Eliza. "Isn't it beautiful? Look here, you can see that it has all been woven by hand. How talented she must be." Eliza looked up to see if there was a seller. She did not have any money, so she hoped she had something in her pockets that she could trade.
There was a woman standing nearby, wearing something as brilliant and as detailed as the fabrics she was selling. She was flanked closely by a young girl, who looked to be her daughter. The little girl was staring at Eliza in awe.
Eliza had never before seen skin such as theirs before this journey. She had read things and heard things. It was difficult not to when one attended gatherings frequented by navy men who had visited the West Indies before. But she had only ever heard such derogatory words. Nobody had ever told her just how beautiful they were.
Eliza's ears perked up when she heard Captain Buckley say something to the vendor in a different tongue. It was the language that she could hear every man and woman speaking in the market street, and she was suddenly very impressed that the captain could speak it too.
The vendor smiled, and approached Eliza calmly. She took the fabric from Eliza's hands and proceeded to fold it neatly for her.
"Did you make it yourself?" Eliza asked. "It is the most beautiful work I have ever seen."
Captain Buckley immediately translated Eliza's question and she nodded, smiling when she heard the compliment.
"I am afraid I don't have any money," Eliza said regretfully. "But I might have something to trade." She dug her hand into her pockets, but Captain Buckley had already passed the woman some money. She looked up at him and beamed. "Thank you!" she cried. "Oh, I promise I will settle this debt."
"Not necessary, Eliza," he murmured in reply.
The woman said something to Captain Buckley, which immediately made him stiffen, before offering a hurried reply.
"What did she say?" Eliza asked curiously, as the woman looked between them in confusion. Before the captain could answer her, the little girl tugged on her mother's dress without taking her eye off Eliza. She asked her a question with an excited smile.
The woman relayed that question to Captain Buckley.
"This is Ionie," Captain Buckley said, gesturing to the little girl, who could only be about five or six years old. "Her mother asks if Ionie can play with your hair. She has never seen blonde hair like yours before. In exchange, her mother will style it for you."
Eliza had noticed the fascination of the children in the British Virgin Islands with her hair, though she had not realised that it was because of her hair colour. She eagerly nodded and was subsequently quite embarrassed at the tangle mess of curls her hair had become on her journey.
Eliza was welcomed into the little stall and directed to sit down on the ground beside little Ionie. The dirt was deceptively cool and was a welcome relief from the hot sun under the shade sail that had been erected.
Ionie immediately got to work gleefully, running her fingers through Eliza's hair and remarking something excitedly to her mother. Eliza looked up at Captain Buckley, who was leaning against the table, for translation.
"It feels different, she says, soft," he explained.
Ionie's mother produced a wooden, long toothed comb, and Ionie accepted it gladly. She poked Eliza's head with it, and Eliza jumped at the sharpness. Her mother interjected, showing her how to comb Eliza's hair in a rather soothing way.
The feeling of her hair being combed in such a way reminded her immediately of her own mother, and how she had tended to Eliza's hair diligently when she was a child, and she still did even now that she was an adult. Even though her mother would often be scolding her or telling her how she ought to be fishing for husbands, Eliza always enjoyed how tenderly her mother combed her hair.
"I am Eliza," Eliza introduced herself clearly, pointing to her chest as she said her name.
She seemed to understand as she pointed to her own chest, and said, "Alvita."
***
Tom listened as he heard mother and daughter gush over Eliza's beautiful hair in Jamaican Patois. Eliza sat rather serenely as Ionie played with Eliza's hair, and Alvita fixed a handful of tight braids.
Alvita had assumed that Eliza was Tom's wife.
"Your wife is very beautiful," she had told him. "I can see her kind heart."
Tom had not so graciously informed her that they were not married, and he was certain that Alvita was curious then as to the nature of their relationship. Though Eliza looked all too innocent to have something untoward assumed about her.
He could not let her wander around in a strange place by herself. He honestly wondered how her parents could let her out of their sight. She would always attract some sort of trouble.
Tom was not attached in any way. Or at least that was what he had spent the week telling himself. He had done his best to remain aloof and cold, and he had succeeded in keeping her away, even though his traitorous eyes followed her wherever she went.
But here she sat, with her legs crossed and her hands together in her lap. Her eyes were closed, and she was smiling peacefully. He couldn't help but stare at her and appreciate her. She had freckles now, a dozen or so gifts from the sun dotting themselves across her nose and cheeks. Her skin, once red with sunburn, had grown more tan, but her hair was lighter than ever.
But his favourite part of her was her smile. She had smiled at him when he had bought her the fabric that she liked, and that was exactly why he had done it. He wanted a smile.
Oh, dear God. Tom forced himself to turn away and look out onto the street. What in good God was he doing? He could tell himself all day that he was not attached to her, that his coldness was a cure all, but it was just utter denial.
It was not like he had never seen a pretty girl before.
In a few months, she would be home with her rich parents in Plymouth and he would never see her again. What part of impossible could he not grasp?
The sudden thought of never seeing her again hit him like a knife to the stomach, and that was exactly the pain that he needed. She would be gone. He would never see her again. She would be married off to a lord, or some gentleman with more money than sense, and he would never cross her mind. Tom already lived with pain. He did not need anymore. He did not think he would cope with anymore.
His own mother's conduct had ruined the last two decades of his life. How much longer did he want to suffer?
***
Eliza's hair now had three tight, little braids, and was combed up into a high style that was fixed tightly with a strip of the same fabric that she had loved. She looked very ... well, she looked beautiful, and there was no other way to describe her.
Eliza thanked Alvita and Ionie profusely and promised to return the next day to visit them. Tom translated her message and made a note in his head to work his business with Richard Kerry around Eliza's excursions.
Tom thanked them both in Jamaican Patois and then guided Eliza and her purchase away from the stall. He decided to take her to the tavern where he knew his crew would be gathering as they always did in Kingston as he could be assured of a decent meal there.
"Thank you for waiting," Eliza said gratefully. As she walked, she was feeling her hair with a satisfied little smile.
Staring at you passed the time quickly, he thought. "Not at all," he murmured instead.
"Who taught you how to speak their language?" she then asked.
"Oh," he suddenly thought. When did he learn to speak Patois? "I suppose I taught myself. I have been sailing back and forth from Jamaica for nearly twenty years."
"How clever you must be," remarked Eliza. "My mother tried to teach me French andLatin for years, but I suppose you do not learn if you never listen." She laughed at herself.
"Très tragique," he replied.
Eliza stared up at him with her eyebrows raised. "You speak French, too?"
"And Spanish," he replied. "Dutch. Some Creole. And Patois, as you heard." Tom shrugged his shoulders. Quietly, it made him feel rather proud that he had impressed her. Twenty years of forging relationships through learning languages and this was what had made him feel proud. "I don't speak Latin," he added.
Eliza laughed. "Exspes," she said. "That is the only Latin word I know. It means hopeless, which was what my mother called my efforts in finishing studies. What need have I for Latin? How will that secure me a husband? Am I to speak to his Roman relatives from a thousand years ago?" She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "If you knew my mother, then you would comprehend my vexation. I adore her, just not her methods."
She was joking, Tom thought, but she had once again reminded him of just where she came from.
----
Hope you enjoyed it!
"Alone of all the races on earth, they seem to be free from the 'Grass is Greener on the other side of the fence' syndrome, and roundly proclaim that Australia is, in fact, the other side of that fence."
― Douglas Adams
I would just like to profusely thank everyone who has commented and reached out to me these past few days. It means so much that you care!
I'm still okay and safe, though yesterday was the closest the fires have ever been. I could see the orange smoke which was frightening. The fires are going to be the worst for us this Thursday and Friday so we're just keeping a look out but we should be fine.
There are many who are not, and they need your help, so donate if you can! I put some links on my profile for you to look at if you are able to! If you are not in a position to donate, that's okay! Just share the links with others who might be able to.
The pictures are so devastating and the loss of life, property, land, and the astronomical loss of wildlife kills me! We have such beautiful wildlife here, and they are sitting ducks when it comes to bushfires.
For those of you who don't know, koalas live in eucalyptus trees, which are filled with eucalyptus oil which is highly flammable. They can often explode when caught alight, creating heaps of fires and killing the poor koalas that live in them.
What's worse is the fires push animals like kangaroos into more densely populated areas instead of out in the open and they are more likely to be hit by cars. If you live in Australia and see a kangaroo on the side of the road, don't forget to check it's pouch and get its joey to a wildlife clinic.
I'm honestly so deflated right now. Just thankful my friends and family are safe and staying vigilant for what's to come. Keep yourselves safe and give what you can xx
"There is no better way of life in the world than that of the Australian. I firmly believe this. The grumbling, growling, cursing, profane, laughing, beer drinking, abusive, loyal-to-his-mates Australian is one of the few free men left on this earth. He fears no one, crawls to no one, bludges on no one, and acknowledges no master. Learn his way. Learn his language. Get yourself accepted as one of him; and you will enter a world that you never dreamed existed. And once you have entered it, you will never leave it."
― John O'Grady
We'll be okay. We'll get up again. I love my home.