The Diary of Miss Elizabeth Perry

Monday, 3 June 1695

Golden Venture of Portsmouth

3 weeks west of the Canary Islands

My dear Diary,

It has been almost two months since we left Portsmouth, and the Golden Venture now lags behind both the convoy of frigates with whom we travel, and our contracted gunship. The Canary Current and trade winds—so vital to any Atlantic crossing—seem to have left us behind. We have not seen their sails in days, and the captain grows more irritable each time I ask.

I know the fault does not lie with the winds but with the ship herself. The ship groans with every wave. She was never meant for an Atlantic crossing, and I suspect years have passed since her last proper refit—yet another victim of Father’s relentless thrift and my two elder brothers’ lack of spines or brains.

The crew does not hide their dislike of me or Carrie. Their mutterings about "ill-fated omens" grow louder each day, and their glares follow us wherever we go. The captain brushes off their complaints, but even he seems uneasy. I catch him glancing toward the horizon more often now, his hand straying to his cutlass when he thinks no one is looking.

Carrie clings to my arm when the deck pitches, trying bravely to hide her fear, but her hands shake when she holds her sewing. Despite my requests, Captain Marlowe has not seen fit to shift the ballast bags, thus ensuring that this absurd motion will continue. I repeatedly assure her that once we are off this dreadful ship, she will not have to worry any further, as I have no intention of leaving Kingston. After the wedding is behind us, she shall become my housekeeper within our new household—a responsibility I know she will handle with quiet resolve, though at the moment she seems solely focused on returning to dry land.

The storm clouds linger at the edge of sight, and the crew glances toward the sails more frequently. Though Captain Marlowe claims we are safe, I wonder. The horizon seems darker each day, the air heavier, and the sea more restless. This evening, the wind shifted without warning, leaving the ship eerily still before a sudden gust sent the sails straining sharply. Even the waves seem to rise in slow, deliberate swells, as if the ocean itself is gathering its strength. I catch faint acrid smells on the breeze, sharp and unfamiliar, carried from the east along with whispers of distant thunder. A storm is brewing, but I seem to be the only person aboard—man or woman—willing to openly acknowledge as much.

I find myself longing for the sight of any other ship, though I doubt I would recognize the gunship even if it were to appear. The Atlantic feels boundless, and the farther we drift from the convoy, the more fragile the Venture seems.

I think often of Jamaica, though the closer we get, the less the thought does to comfort me. My thoughts on Lieutenant St. Clair remain polite and distant, our marriage nothing but a transaction; the ring hanging from my neck is only a token of obligation. I will be his wife and hostess, with the household kept in perfect order—as Father expects, and a naval officer’s station demands.

Father would say I think too much on such matters—that a merchant's duty is to profit, and all else follows. But I cannot help but see how his thrift shows in the weathered crew and groaning timbers. A ship is a kingdom, and its owner bears responsibility for all aboard. Should a household not be the same? Yet I wonder if Lieutenant St. Clair shares my view, or if he, like Father, sees only columns of figures to be balanced.

And yet, when I look at the endless sea, I wonder if there is more to life than this tidy little future. The waves crash against the hull, wild and untamed, as though daring me to dream of something greater.

For now, though, I am tethered to the plans Father has made for me, just as I am tethered to this struggling ship. I can only hope that, as Marlowe so ardently believes, I am mistaken and the storm will pass us by, allowing us to reach the Bahamas soon—and ultimately, Jamaica.

Until then,

Elizabeth Louise Perry

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Friday, 7 June 1695

La Vagabonde of unknown origin

Somewhere east of the Bahamas

My dear Diary,

I am thankful to Our Father in Heaven that I am still able to provide these testaments of our journey. I believe the date is correct. Our current ship is our gaol. Our location is less certain, but I shall explain.

Shortly after my previous entry, on that same day, we were overtaken by a storm the likes of which I have never seen. The Venture did not take the winds well, the mainmast cracking twenty feet above the deck, tearing the course in twain. That, however, was not the worst; riding the storm like the Angel of Death was a French privateer ship, which quickly overtook our crew, murdered our officers, and took the survivors—including Carrie and I—as prisoners.

We spent the next two nights in the hold of their ship, named La Vagabonde. I called them French privateers; however, the crew is a mix of colonial Europeans and others of sundry descent; the captain, Vandeweghe, is Dutch.

But the Devil herself serves aboard this ship: their “quartermistress,” Frederike de Piscau. She is a mulatto of indeterminate age, who dresses like a man and flaunts it. She led the assault on the Venture, ordering the deaths of many good men, even poor Captain Marlowe. She insists on addressing me as “Paloma”—meaning “dove” I am told—but I do not comprehend her meaning.

The second day I offered our skills. Carrie revived the galley with meals far beyond the crew’s expectations. She cannot speak a word of French herself, so I share their praises—excluding the lewdness. Meanwhile, I have made use of my cross-stitch skills to assist with mending the sails. The previous sail master died recently, and the sails have suffered. Unlike Captain Marlowe, this crew seems to welcome my skills and knowledge.

As part of the bargain, I also turned over my ring, the one which Lieutenant St. Clair had given in order to bind the contract between our families. The captain called it collateral. I doubt I shall see it again. That woman threatened to search me stem to stern for anything of value, in full view of the crew. Needless to say, I submitted without a fight. The evil that that woman exudes is unlike anything I was ever warned of by the Reverend Hester back home. I now know that the Fallen truly walk among us.

I do not know how long it shall be until we are permitted to return to England or Her Colonies. The war waged by England and Her Allies against the French is minor here, compared to the continent, or so I am told, but the French employ pirates such as these to thieve without honor. What remained of the Venture was scuttled, meaning that there is no proof of our survival. Father, Lieutenant St. Clair, my brothers… they will all believe that we are lost to Davy Jones’s locker. I pray we shall see them all again.

As for where we are going, I can only say that we are sailing toward the setting sun. But I cannot be certain how far south we have moved; I imagine we are headed to Saint-Domingue on Hispaniola. I recall it from my maps in Portsmouth. If so, it is only an island's length from the Spanish colony, so it should not be too difficult to arrange our ransom—or escape outright. And we shall be able to continue on to Jamaica.

I must rest now. The days have been long and the nights short. I will report more as I may.

Until then,

Elizabeth Louise Perry

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Thursday, 13 June 1695

La Vagabonde

Two weeks east of Santa Catalina

My dear Diary,

I cannot express to you how much happens in such a short amount of time aboard a ship such as this. On land, time is easily marked from week to week and month to month by the social calendar, with much time between to contemplate or plan. At sea, time is measured by storms, sails, and survival, not almanacs. Carrie has not been ill since boarding. She is a different woman now—I hardly recognize her.

So the day after my previous entry, while we were mending sails, a cannon crushed the hand of a young métis powder monkey. The so-called ship's surgeon was Joaquin, the drunken master carpenter. He leered at us and could not stand, let alone treat the patient.

It is at this point that I must admit: when my father would, on occasion, have me accompany him aboard his ships, he never included me in business. Instead, I spent hours with ships’ surgeons, who boasted of the lives they each had saved. I merely imitated what I had learned. The lad, Yves, lost his hand—but I saved his life. I, a young woman from Portsmouth, was able to do that.

The last sail master, a woman named Isabel, was also the ship's surgeon. De Piscau will not speak of her, but I hear she was beautiful, skilled, and deeply mourned. I can only hope that I am half as capable as she. I must admit that her clothing—breeches and smock, such as men wear—is far more comfortable than European-style dresses and corsets and such.

The following day brought a strange ritual they call “Sunday Service.” Led by de Piscau, the crew confessed crimes, were punished, and swore blood oaths. Oddly, even the lowliest sailor can speak, and officers are elected—much like a muster, except at sea.

I said men—I mean women as well. For here is the most amazing part of the matter: they invited me to be their new sail master. I, Elizabeth Perry of Portsmouth, am now an officer aboard La Vagabonde. I have been sworn to the ship, elected by the men, and embraced as a sister.

Unfortunately, my first duty was to help both decide and deliver the punishment to Joaquin, the disgraced carpenter. Stripped of his rank, we had the choice to flog him or kill him. De Piscau wanted him executed, which swayed me to use the lash on him instead. I only hope mercy was not a mistake.

The past few days I have been learning and earning my place among the officers. Vandeweghe—who admits to being the ship's navigator, captain only because de Piscau is too disliked by key figures among the crew—has been teaching me the plotting of courses and reading of maps and stars, should it be necessary. In less than a week, he had shown me more kindness and taught me more than my father ever did. I am uncertain of what it all means. I do know that when he addresses me as Liza—lee-za not lye-za—I could not be more proud.

De Piscau has mostly kept her distance. When she is not prowling around the deck or lurking within her cabin, she keeps the watch atop the mainmast. As best I can tell, she sleeps little, but all trust her to see any prey or predators that may cross our path. To be honest, I am glad she keeps away from me. The woman may not be pure evil, but I cannot abide her.

The reason for that is that I fear she may be corrupting poor Carrie. After we had been released from the brig early on, we slept on the floor of de Piscau’s cabin, where that woman behaved indecently in ways I shall not relate. When Yves lost his hand, I moved into the surgery to keep him company and attend to his needs; Carrie remained behind. I have since witnessed her sharing that woman's bed. I do trust Carrie to resist any temptations proffered, but I fear for her soul as I cannot trust de Piscau.

We are headed to Santa Catalina, an island along the coast near Charles Town. I am told there are two villages that help to reprovision the ship and restore the crew's morale; some even have family among the villagers. By the time we reach it, in about a week, I hope to be more secure in my place here.

Until then,

Elizabeth Perry

Sail Master

PS:

It occurred to me: I no longer wish to reach Jamaica. I do not miss my family, my brothers, my betrothed. Moreover, I never wish to see my father again. I do not know what this means. But this feeling scares me.

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Saturday, 29 June 1695

La Vagabonde

One week south of Santa Catalina

Dear Diary,

A week has passed since we left the island, and much has changed. Caspar Vandeweghe stayed behind with his wife and children, leaving us without a proper navigator. I’ve taken on those duties as well, and it’s exhausting. I miss him dearly. Before he left, he returned my ring to me. I don't know what to do with it. Maybe give it to the crew?

The stay on the island was short. While there, some crew committed a vile outrage against a village maid, forcing our early departure. I’m only glad that they have not chosen to behave that way toward Carrie or myself. I would not feel sorry for them if they were to try such things with Frederike; she’d kill them where they stood.

Speaking of whom: that woman confuses me. She was elected as captain, but only by a small majority—significantly so. Yet, despite the politics of it, she is rarely on deck; she is often among the mast-tops, and thus the crew are struggling to find their bearing. To be honest, I'm not sure she truly wants it. Meanwhile, Joaquin has risen once more and leads a growing faction of the swabbers and carpenters. Yves and I spent this past week trying to keep Sebastião and his gunners allied with my riggers and her haulers. I don't know how long the peace will last; The lad rarely leaves my side.

There is a positive: I’ve continued to keep quarters in the surgery, as it’s close to the sail room as well. Prior to landing at the island, Carrie joined me there, claiming it was closer to the galley. She now shares my bed—she told me she prefers my company to Frederike's. I’ve thought much about it these past few weeks, and I must admit—I cannot bear to be without her. I don’t know what this means yet; so it must be.

But as noted, the storm aboard the ship is threatening to tear it apart. I almost wish for a return of the first storm, which blew across us not even a month ago. That was nature, a neutral force; man is far more evil. I only pray that we survive whatever blows our way next.

Until then,

Liza Perry

Sail Mistress

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Monday, 15 July 1695

La Vagabonde

Windward Passage

Captain's Log:

The mutiny ended two weeks ago, but its echoes linger in every creak of the ship. The remaining loyal crew carries on with quiet determination, sailing cautiously, resting by night, as we've only half a crew remaining. Those who betrayed us are gone, their judgments passed swiftly under Sebastiao’s unyielding gaze and my own trembling sword.

The traitors were fed to the sea: the sharks followed us for days. Yves, however, received a proper burial, in honor of his sacrifice. We wrapped him in a sail and lowered him gently into the waves, honoring his memory with spoken words. I would not be alive were it not for him. He was my brother.

Later, the crew took the Pledge once more. Their voices were strong and unwavering, a declaration of loyalty forged in blood and storm. When they chose me, I saw something I hadn’t before: recognition. Not as a passenger, not as a merchant’s daughter, but as their captain. And they are my crew.

Frederike emerged from her cabin today for the first time since the mutiny. She moves slowly, propped on a crutch, her limbs bound in splints, her face drawn and pale. Yet even now, her presence carries an undeniable weight. She is my friend and confidante, and I only hope she heals from her grief of losing Isabel. She shows no reluctance in serving under me, for which I am glad. I do not want her as an enemy.

This evening, I found Carrie in the galley, tidying up after supper. The space, once chaotic during the height of the mutiny, has returned to its familiar rhythm. She may not know it, but I see her strength. I see it in the way she stands her ground, even when the sea threatens to swallow her whole. The ring hanging around her neck fills me with pride; I hope one day to be worthy of her love.

Originally, we’d planned for Saint-Domingue, but the risks are too great. La Vagabonde carries a letter of marque for the French crown, and while it protects the crew, it offers no such shelter for an Englishwoman bearing my name. Tortuga is where we’ll regroup, rebuild, and ready ourselves for what comes next. Two more weeks to the west, and then freedom.

Sometimes, I think about what I left behind—the gilded cage of my family’s business. I had a better mind for it than my brothers ever did, but I was never more than a bargaining chip to them. A commodity to be traded, never an equal to be trusted. It took a pirate’s ransom to set me free.

What a difference a month makes.

This is who I am now.

Until the next time,

Liza de Paloma

Captain of La Vagabonde