tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53280304858567840082011-07-31T01:17:06.595-07:00This is a work of fiction by Lisa Jensen, which continues the adventures of Tory Lightfoot and Jack Dance begun in my previous novel, The Witch From The Sea.Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.comBlogger411100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-83735401906456033522010-10-18T19:22:00.000-07:002010-10-18T19:45:21.591-07:00

Welcome to the home page of RUNAWAYS: A NOVEL OF JONKANOO(The sequel to THE WITCH FROM THE SEA)All Tory Lightfoot has ever wanted is her freedom. A half-white, half-Mohawk runaway from the intolerance and stifling gentility of a Boston orphanage, accidental seafarer Tory has washed up in the British Leeward Islands of the West Indies. Now that she and her lover, Jack—acrobat, failed actor, and

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-60426452337636399112010-09-28T16:22:00.000-07:002010-09-29T09:43:46.871-07:00

For all the goodbyes she had said in her life, Tory wondered that they never seemed to get any easier. But there was no time for sentiment now. Just before dawn, Cully ran into town to engage a carter from the docks; it were better if the players were not perceived to be breaking camp. Ada Bruce took the opportunity to embrace Jack in farewell. Jack entrusted Captain Billy with his letter of

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-62737946548692666672010-09-22T11:48:00.000-07:002010-09-22T12:08:08.969-07:00

Tory sat perched on the stool in the dark of the wagon, as the minutes crawled by like centuries. Captain Billy had the idea to keep Alphonse and Calypso and the boys safe in his caravan, where they were not expected to be; if the militia came back, they would be far less likely to bully an English gentleman like Billy Bruce about the property in his wagon. Tory had begged Cybele and Ada to share

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-73428969275008019492010-09-15T10:13:00.000-07:002010-09-15T10:34:36.047-07:00

It was far too quiet, unnaturally quiet. Fear descended like twilight over the mountain. There was no hum of activity anywhere on the estate, not in the stock pens, or the cook-house, or the slave cabins. Only the thick, manufactured quiet of held breaths and swallowed words, punctuated now and then by a stray shot, or the riot of passing hooves, or yelping dogs, or some other outcry of

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-282019691860146312010-09-07T17:19:00.000-07:002010-09-08T08:46:02.741-07:00

It was a different sort of custom than they had played to last season in Charlestown. Tory noticed it even as she juggled pins in her opening business. The island quality and their grand carriages were entirely absent, off to the ball—or at least, the ladies. There were no able-bodied white men of any station present, so it must be true, what Jack had overheard. They were all turned out for the

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-54361973236541945032010-09-01T09:49:00.000-07:002010-09-01T10:08:34.743-07:00

It was too much to think about all at once; she would go mad. She must solve one problem at a time, Tory told herself, and keep going. Carrying Captain Billy’s coat and hat back to the Bruces’ caravan, she noticed a faint whiff of rum on the damp collar, and had her first inspiration. "Jack is...indisposed," she told them, leaking just a trace of irritation into her voice. Neither of them had

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-57994632046514452942010-08-25T09:28:00.000-07:002010-08-25T09:39:06.984-07:00

Their first few days alone together back on Nevis reminded Tory of the first carefree months she and Jack had spent in the Leewards, traveling the back roads of St. Kitts, with only the clothes on their backs and little more to worry about than earning their next meal. It was like that now in Charlestown, as Nevis began to shake off the doldrums of the gale season. Anxious to be gone from the

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-73236939583296518372010-08-17T15:18:00.000-07:002010-08-18T08:59:24.867-07:00

"Ain’t interested, sir," declared the little Cockney trader with one squinty eye. "It is solid gold, Mr. Swallowes," retorted Stephen Raleigh, battling to best his temper. "Surely, it must interest you a little." "Aye, but it’d be the ruination of me to 'ave such a fing in me possession, wouldn’t it? Bein’ it’s cursed and all." "Oh, you can’t believe such an idle load of mischief," Raleigh

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-46704232017787536902010-08-11T09:34:00.000-07:002010-08-11T09:49:47.640-07:00

September began with a fortnight of drenching rain during which all of Antigua was shut up tighter than a ship’s hatch in a gale. To celebrate the return of dry weather, Mrs. Cora Harvey held a private dinner for a dozen or two of her most intimate friends at her fine townhouse in St. John’s. There were three full captains in attendance, a brace of commanders, and a handsome young flag officer, a

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-8219325213188130032010-08-04T09:20:00.000-07:002010-08-04T09:30:29.760-07:00

Tory awoke in the early morning to find the sun already creeping up, gilding the treetops, casting crisp shadows across the rocky ground. They had taken advantage of a dry spell to give Alphonse a turn alone in the wagon, and Jack was still asleep beside her, curled on his side with his back to her. His arm stretched off the pallet and out from under the edge of the sheer lawn netting that tented

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-54714516796557891392010-07-28T11:01:00.000-07:002010-07-28T11:13:11.231-07:00

The summer rains came sooner to Antigua than expected. There was little custom on wet days at the Sunday markets in St. John’s. It was a sign, Jack supposed, that he must buckle down and work up some diversions for the Bath Hotel. It would be so important to succeed. And not only financially, so they could continue their more important work; if they were seen to be under the patronage of

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-56050999256941162112010-07-21T08:15:00.000-07:002010-07-21T08:37:42.073-07:00

It ought not to have taken long, the overland journey from Falmouth on the southern coast of Antigua across the interior to St. John’s. But Jack kept their pace slow. It wasn’t only concern for the horses, who were accustomed to pulling their loads in the tropical heat; Jack wanted to savor the spectacle of their procession in the landscape. The Bruces’ caravan had a fresh coat of red and

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-90653093478028329742010-07-14T08:57:00.000-07:002010-07-14T09:12:24.041-07:00

The sloop was rocking very slightly on a slow, lazy swell. Jack’s damp chest rose and fell with each breath under Tory’s cheek, and she no longer knew if she were waking or dreaming, rocking in Jack’s strong arms or lying still. Jack had stretched out on his back to fill the little bunk, one knee bent up and his other foot hanging over the edge. She was sprawled half over him, cradled in his arms

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-52047051100527607812010-07-07T09:09:00.000-07:002010-07-07T09:39:10.465-07:00

All the next day Tory grew more miserable, keeping below as the Fortune cruised to her anchorage off Sint Maarten. During the night, they had passed Saba, where the Providence was waiting, had seen the distant cone of the island off the port quarter most of the day. The crew was eager for the end of their cruise, and the distribution of their spoils. But Tory could not be roused by their

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-70492028361449403192010-06-30T08:58:00.000-07:002010-06-30T09:39:46.838-07:00

"I might have known with Mistress Lightfoot aboard, ye’d not be far behind," chuckled Ed Hart, as he handed Jack a jug of his best rum. "It gladdens me to know when my people swear an oath to each other, they see it through." Jack sucked down a liberal portion of the rum, which made the friendly acquaintance of the brandy he’d had, earlier, steadying his nerves somewhat. Hart had invited him

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-26814019585429565142010-06-23T09:05:00.000-07:002010-06-23T09:23:30.681-07:00

It took Jack another day to find the sloop that flew the compass rose. She was not out in the road off Sandy Point, nor off the hidden cove where he and Tory had once made love. But there were other coves. He changed his horse for a fresh one in Sandy Point Town, and rode along the coast overlooking the bays and inlets of the northwestern end of the island. But it was not until dawn the next

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-25947461959068931082010-06-16T09:19:00.000-07:002010-06-16T09:31:32.083-07:00

Mr. Theophilus Jepson, gentleman of business, sat back in his comfortable armchair in the private apartment above his warehouse overlooking the docks of Basseterre. He had offered to pour his visitor a glass of port from the crystal decanter that occupied the small end table between them, but his offer had been graciously declined. As ever, his old friend Belair was one for getting straight to

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-64741399977171749302010-06-08T19:13:00.000-07:002010-06-08T19:23:52.494-07:00

Tory stood on a table in the back room of the Old Medusa Tavern. She had gladly scrubbed her face and arms, and sour water from the horse trough outside had been splashed over the rest of her, to dissolve some of the grime. Sodden patches of her frayed clothing stuck to her breasts and belly and thighs like a coarse second skin, and her unbound hair hung in long, damp, muddy clumps. She stood

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-73598192255549224012010-06-02T08:22:00.000-07:002010-06-02T08:45:04.839-07:00

"Planters spend very little time patrolling their borders," Alphonse explained. He and Jack had left the Birney estate and taken refuge from the heat in a dense, shady grove off the road. "The wealthy ones with men and dogs to spare are vigilant enough. But so many estates change hands or fall into disrepair. Many watchman’s huts stand empty and forgotten. "I grew up in watch houses, it was

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-68432753400932767432010-05-25T17:13:00.000-07:002010-05-25T17:26:05.414-07:00

Boisterous laughter, fiddling, and singing erupted out of the waterfront tavern, drawing Tory along through the night shadows. She was near enough to see its fanciful wooden sign, swaying and creaking in the light breeze, a crudely carved figure of a mermaid with a head full of snakes, like the tangle of a spider's web. The Old Medusa Tavern, it was called, hard by the broad beach overlooking

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-61886926832863772702010-05-19T09:02:00.000-07:002010-05-19T09:24:33.833-07:00

Amos Greaves went grumbling downstairs to his print shop in his dressing gown. Who could it be, this "old acquaintance" scratching at the back door at such an hour, like a brigand, upsetting his household? Refused to give a name into the bargain. His houseman was quite put out over it, would have turned the fellow off but that he let his person be searched for weapons and swore he meant no harm,

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-85835841869580118952010-05-12T08:31:00.000-07:002010-05-12T08:53:56.095-07:00

"I shall speak to this fellow," Jack declared. "If you must, but wait until nightfall," Alphonse advised. "It is not safe for you to be seen in the street. If the chief constable discovers you at large in his town—" "If I find he’s had a hand in this business, he’ll see more of me than he bargained for," Jack muttered. And how could it be otherwise? There could be no one else who harbored

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-52693733993724362502010-05-04T15:53:00.000-07:002010-05-04T16:07:19.587-07:00

It hurt so much to straighten up, Tory no longer even tried. The constant dull ache in the small of her back was preferable to the searing stab of pain that shot up her spine and into her shoulder when she attempted to stand erect. So she remained stooped, as she leaned again into the tin laundry tub. Her chapped, reddened hands and wrinkled fingers could scarcely feel to grasp under the water

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-46599431123418571812010-04-28T09:01:00.000-07:002010-04-28T09:16:31.067-07:00

The cookfire had burned down to embers, as low as Jack’s spirit. Something hot still glowed at the very core, but it was crusted over with thick layers of cold black dread and helpless desolation. It was late, and the others were long abed. Cybele and the rest of the children were in the wagon, where they slept every night now; the Bruces in their caravan. Alphonse had retired to his nest

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-56715920292881069252010-04-21T08:36:00.000-07:002010-04-21T08:55:52.361-07:00

"Slow down, Marcus," Tory laughed. "You’d think the devil himself were after you!" "But Jack going to teach me a new ting to juggle," the boy pleaded. He had obediently pulled himself up short, but he was so agitated to be off again, he was literally hopping from one foot to the other waiting for Tory to catch up, despite the bulky satchel of props he carried. "Well, he won’t start without

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-12927124925413740032010-04-14T08:37:00.000-07:002010-04-14T09:04:26.734-07:00

New Year’s was the last night of the holiday revels. At dawn, the slaves returned to their masters to receive their annual allotment of clothing and were dispersed back to their labors. But the island militia remained in possession of the town to discourage the last vestiges of rebelliousness, if not open rebellion. A sinister kind of quiet was restored to Charlestown. The hotel guests kept to

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-15959355230148410032010-04-07T08:55:00.000-07:002010-04-07T09:19:58.672-07:00

Jack had tried so hard not to think about the Spanish ring these past weeks, it was never very far out of his mind. He had no other evidence that Tory cared any less for him; indeed, the evidence of his heart and his own senses told him otherwise. But his heart had been wrong before, and the senses were so easily fooled. And just when he'd convinced himself he was behaving like a half-wit

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-85467160867024550302010-03-31T09:06:00.000-07:002010-03-31T09:22:52.419-07:00

Peeping out from behind the curtain, Tory watched the clearing fill up with small open carriages. Ladies lounged inside, faces and bosoms veiled in gauze against the night dew. Gentlemen on foot or on horseback, some in uniform, roved between the carriages, paying compliments to the ladies, and saluting each other. Slaves, servants, drifters and children sat in the dust where they could. The

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-65673843737817024332010-03-24T09:03:00.000-07:002010-03-24T09:34:35.453-07:00

"It looks like a mausoleum," grumbled Jack. "It will seem more lively when it is filled up with the English and their money," Alphonse assured him. They stood in the road looking up at the grey stone facade of the Bath Hotel. Behind a fantasia of terraced gardens, it rose like an immense volcanic cinderblock striped with rows of white lattice-work balconies. Many of its tall windows stood

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-43510979661912088202010-03-17T17:46:00.000-07:002010-03-17T18:19:43.017-07:00

"You mean I cracked his ribs for him?" Tory groaned."No, cherie, the club do that," Cybele replied. "You only give him some extra bruises for his trouble."Tory turned away, hands stuffed into her folded arms as if to prevent them doing any more damage, furious at herself. Furious at the world. Cybele knew that feeling very well."But for you, his ribs all be broken, now," she pointed out. "And

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-10693549309354723242010-03-10T09:05:00.000-08:002010-03-10T09:14:21.635-08:00

"Constable, what the deuce is going on here?" The blackness ebbed away and Tory saw a well-dressed white gentleman of middle years astride a fine horse riding toward them through the remaining onlookers. A black youth about Tory’s age, walked alongside the horse; he was not tall, but stocky through the shoulders, and dressed in a waistcoat and rolled trousers above bare feet. "This man is

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-7237848451487120822010-03-03T09:02:00.000-08:002010-03-03T09:19:55.614-08:00

Chief Constable Stephen Raleigh sat at the duty table in the ground-floor apartment that served as a watch house in the Basseterre Court House. It was a fine, dry Sunday morning, the night watch had been dismissed and he had sent the constables out on their rounds. At such a moment, he could persuade himself that the public peace of Basseterre lay entirely in his hands, for the Deputy Provost

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-47077137874004028592010-02-24T08:27:00.000-08:002010-02-24T08:45:16.111-08:00

Jack was alone in the wagon the next Sunday morning, between performances at the market in St. John’s. Their little troupe did not care to spend too many days in a row amongst the naval officers at English Harbour. Alphonse and Tory were taking a turn around the market with their drummer and Marcus was seeing to True’s feedbag outside. The bell had rung at St. John’s Church to signal the end

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-84019715967267803352010-02-16T17:44:00.000-08:002010-02-17T09:45:32.536-08:00

St. John’s, the principal port town on the northern coast of Antigua, was not so bustling a place as Basseterre. But the very dullness of the place made the sudden appearance of the patchwork Harlequinade all the more of a sensation. Particularly among the homesick idlers with leave to visit the town, while their ships weathered the season at English Harbour, on the southern coast. They had

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-1224563480429949322010-02-10T10:53:00.000-08:002010-02-10T11:18:04.341-08:00

Tory was not accustomed to being cloistered indoors with the women and children. But it was proving a wet season, if not yet a violent one, and when she could find nothing more to write about in her logbook than how much she missed Jack at night, she realized she must find some occupation. When the boys were off underfoot at the tavern yard, she helped Cybele sort out the wild grasses and roots

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-51360621076630598132010-02-03T08:57:00.000-08:002010-02-03T09:36:38.332-08:00

"Sweet grass give your lover a fine disposition," chanted the herb woman in a soft, throaty sing-song. "Hot pepper light a fire in the loins. Dried poppy ease the blood." A young Negro woman in plantation linens handed her a lush green vegetable out of her basket in exchange for a small packet. Tory was drawn to the shade and the spicy fragrance in the stall here at market day in Old Road

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-4826498505087369362010-01-27T09:00:00.000-08:002010-01-27T09:40:01.991-08:00

They made an unlikely trio, a tall white man, a bold woman of color, and a small Negro with the manner of a lord. But their novelty turned a profit at the busy weekday markets during crop-over. Jack and Tory slept in lodgings every night, however spartan. Alphonse was frequently off about his mysterious calls, but he met them every morning at Pugh’s, fit and ready for the day’s work.When there

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-11106122267308478392010-01-20T09:10:00.000-08:002010-01-20T09:25:17.517-08:00

At first, no one realized it was a competition. Jack was too busy watching Tory, relieved that she was being so attentive this morning at the busy Sunday market, the day the slaves ventured down from the hillside estates to sell their own produce, livestock and wares on their own account. The marketplace was thriving with custom, but Jack noticed their audience thinning. Glancing off to see why

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-16639271431736670572010-01-13T08:37:00.000-08:002010-01-13T09:11:44.166-08:00

The end of the sugar cane harvest was called crop-over, the second most important holiday after Christmas in the sugar islands. On the plantations, the grinding mills and boiling houses were finally shutting down after their long spring labors. The cane juice had been struck, potted and cured, and all the molasses drained out and sent to the rum distillery. Roads were filling up with carts

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-42851501830986315302010-01-06T16:48:00.000-08:002010-01-06T16:57:54.713-08:00

They were a cutpurse's dream, the pair of them. There could be no better diversion than the juggling couple keeping their small audience rapt at the corner across from the square, not if Abel Wylie had conjured them up special. There were beggars aplenty in these islands, raggedy drunkards and runaway slaves, but Wylie had never seen the like of these two. The fellow was tall, scruffy, dark

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328030485856784008.post-30880267392035937922009-11-22T13:32:00.000-08:002009-11-22T13:36:36.881-08:00

This page is under construction for the posting of my novel, Runaways: A Novel of Jonkanoo, in serial chapters, early in the New Year (2010). Please watch this space for further details!—LJ

Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0