A Sunday afternoon vignette

            They were lined up against the railing, left out in the sun to bake. Gradually they took a chance and began to sit down. They watched as the pirates rifled through their belongings a piece or bag at  a time.

            Drawn by the lure of adventure “travel back in time, see real pirates!” most were not truly equipped to deal with the rigors of life on board a wooden sailing ship and were not mentally prepared to deal with the attitudes and expectations of men from the 18^th century.

            Already two men from their group had gotten into horrible fights with the pirates for refusing to comply with orders. Accustomed to a period of time where class distinctions were not so rigidly drawn and not prepared for the authority of a captain over his ship, they had been pistol-whipped for not instantly obeying orders to sit down and shut up. There was still grumbling amongst the pirate crew that they should be hanged for their offense.

            She watched the proceedings silently, praying to herself that she be allowed to get through the ordeal unscathed. She had come on this trip more knowledgeable about pirate behavior than the others, but they had refused to listen to her.  The men’s egos told them that all that mattered in the world was what they wanted and that they didn’t have to do what the pirates were commanding them to, and she could see that they were probably going to come to a bad end over it.

            Suddenly one of the pirates grabbed a young woman out of the line. Not truly comprehending the situation and thinking she was “playing along,” she flaunted her “wench costume” in the man’s face, making come-on comments to him.

            But this was not the 21^st-Century and definitely not a 21^st Century man who understood that she was playing a role and who would only “play-along” at violating her. She was carried screaming out of sight. Unfortunately, she wasn’t carried far enough away to muffle her screams.

            Cringing now, she made herself smaller against the railing by dropping her head to her knees. But she had been noticed. The next bag they opened was hers.

            Piece by piece they rifled through her papers and belongings. Suddenly, he man cried out urgently, gesturing for someone else to come over. A brown-haired man with an air of authority hurried over. The man handed him a piece of paper. She could just see that it might be her passport. And now she could make out that he had her wallet in his other hand, holding her carry bag under his elbow.

            Taking the passport from the man, the authoritative brown-haired man read it, and scanned the line of prisoners until he came to her.

         

“Vous!” he demanded, “Vous etes Cartier?”

            Her knowledge of French being minimal at best, she replied in English, “No, not me, my mother.”

            “Vous ne parlez pas francais?”

            “No,” she replied, shaking her head. Then he looked in her wallet. He fished out a white card, and his face blanched.  

            He stuffed the card back into her wallet and crumpled her things into a bundle. Franctcally he gestured at the man who had been inspecting her bag.

            « Apportez-muima cabine, » he ordered.

            While swiftly gathering her things into a bundle, he gestured at the man who had been inspecting her bag. « Apportez-lui ma cabine, » he ordered. And several men descended upon her. She had no choice but to gather herself  up as they grabbed her by the arms and marched her across the deck.

            She was taken through a dark  passageway and around several corners. Another door was opened, and she was practically tossed into a room with only a couple of windows for light. With no idea of what had been said nor where she was, she had no choice but to await her fate.