The cat-or whatever it was-adapted to its new surroundings quickly, and it dawned on Jack that perhaps cats had a natural preference for solid ground, and maybe this had contributed to Rugby's churlish behavior on board The Fortress. She moved gracefully around the yard surrounding the outpost, or "Stoutpost," as Jack liked to call it.
"What's become of your dogs?" he said.
"Lost one to a gator, we think. Sold the other one," George said.
"That works to Rugby's advantage."
"Till we get the next one, anyway. They wander in here regular, half mad from hunger."
Jack smiled at Johanna.
"Rugby'll be fine. She can hold her own."
Johanna returned the smile.
George and Marie's tiny house and store were the southernmost dwellings on St. Alban's peninsula, a land mass of roughly thirty-six square miles, bordered, in part, by the Little River.
The men sipped their whisky at the table and watched Marie and Johanna tend the dinner pot. Rose had wandered off somewhere, and Samuel and Steffan were sharpening dinner knives.
"How's she fitting in?" Jack said.
"Johanna? She's a blessing."
"Any problems with her father?"
"Haven't seen him nor the wife since you threatened to kill them if they ever came back."
"That's good. I meant it. There's no excuse for a man to beat his children."
Jack stared at Johanna, thinking about the type of woman she'd grow up to be. She was too young for Jack, at least in his mind, but in a few years she'd be an ideal wife, devoted and grateful to him, and would probably be a wonderful mother to a brood of children as well.
George had noticed him staring at Johanna. He said, "I've only got the one bedroom."
Jack nodded. "That'll do."
George arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
Johanna, whose hearing was excellent, smiled at the comment, but didn't trust herself to peek at Jack. She was a thin, fair-skinned girl who'd come a long way from the waif he'd met two months earlier. Johanna had filled out some, thank the good Lord, and her face had gained color. She was a fine specimen, Jack thought, with her fair, unblemished skin, large green eyes and wavy saddle brown hair made lighter by the scorching sun. The work dress she wore every day was gray and made of stout, twilled cotton that seemed too course for her delicate features. She had an easy smile and calm disposition, which was hard to fathom, given her past history of physical abuse by her parents. He'd been many places, seen many things, but not so many domestic scenes or settings. It was nice to see this healthy family working together to get food on the table.
In Jack's experience, American born men and women were more pleasing to the eye and healthier than their European counterparts. Jack had twice been to London and seen the horrible living conditions. Everything about the city had the foulest stench. The people were permanently filthy, as no one took baths, including the wealthy. Poor families stitched their children into burlap clothes to be worn day and night through the entire winter. The houses, pinched together side-by-side in endless lines, cramped up against the edge of streets and roads, and men urinated freely onto the streets from second-floor windows. Avoiding the random soakings required careful planning. One couldn't just move to the center of the streets, for that's where the latrines had been dug. Women pitched the contents of their chamber pots into the streets daily, without offering the slightest pretense of embarrassment. The refuse and human excrement would be scattered across the dirt or cobblestones awaiting the next rain to wash it into the latrine. Therefore, at any given time, the streets were cesspools so filled with urine and horse manure that no one bothered to avoid stepping in it. Worse, it soaked and clung to the hems of the long dresses and coats worn by women, to be slathered throughout their homes and the commercial establishments they frequented.
If the living conditions were bad, the faces were worse.
Ninety percent of the population had suffered from smallpox or chickenpox at one time or other, and their faces and bodies were riddled with deep-pocketed scars. Rashes, funguses and open sores could be found on nearly every face, at any time. By age twelve, most had rotting teeth. Those who managed to live past the age of thirty did so without their teeth. Infection and oozing pus adorned the vast majority of necks, backs and buttocks; and boils and carbuncles were constant sources of annoyance and pain.
Of course, the major cities in America were filthy, but towns such as St. Alban's, while nasty in certain areas, benefited from the lack of dense population. Though George and Marie's faces were pockmarked and their teeth bad, they still managed to look ten years younger than their European counterparts. And thanks to the rural living conditions, healthy food, and medicine supplied by their good friend Jack, Johanna and the Stout children appeared healthy and clear-skinned enough to be a different species altogether.
"See any pirates when you were fishing?" Samuel said.
"Not this trip."
"We like pirates, don't we, Father?" Rose said.
George and Marie exchanged a glance. They knew Jack was a pirate, but it wouldn't be safe for their children to know.
Jack said, "I think all colonists are fond of pirates, or privateers, as they're currently called. Reason being, English taxes are so high these days, the colonists lose money on every crop. They have to traffic with pirates to survive."
"Do you know any pirates, Henry?" Rose said.
Jack could feel all eyes on his face. "It's possible, since there are pirates everywhere these days."
"How come?" Samuel persisted.
"With England at war with Spain, they want pirates to sink Spanish ships. So they passed a law that lets pirates keep 100% of their plunder from enemy ships."
"England likes pirates?" Samuel asked.
Jack laughed. "England tolerates them for now. But when the war is over, that will change."
"What will happen then?"
"The governors will go back to hanging them."