Newportes Newes, Virginia
April 25, 1747
The London Pride chafed against the quay as the currents of a rising nor’easter slowly rocked the vessel on her cables. Close above her mastheads, errant clouds tumbled in darkening portent of an advancing storm. Gulls swooped in and out of the ship’s rigging, lending their raucous cries to the rattle of chains as a double file of thin, ragged convicts stumbled up from the companionway and shuffled in unison across the weathered planking. The men, hobbled by leg irons and bound to each other by no more than a fathom’s length of chain, were prodded into line for the bosun’s inspection. The women were individually shackled and could move at their own pace toward the forward hatch where they had been told to wait.
Farther aft, a common swabber paused in his labors to observe the latter group. After casting a cautious glance toward the quarterdeck, he grew bold at the continued absence of Captain Fitch and his bovine wife and hastily stowed his mop and bucket before ambling across the deck. Strutting like a well-preened rooster around the shabby women, he provoked a near-solid bulwark of embittered glares with his leering grin and brash manner. The singular exception was a dark-eyed, raven-haired harlot who had been convicted of lifting the purses of the men she had bedded and of seriously wounding a goodly number in the process. She alone offered a promising smile to the tar.
“I ain’t seen the bogtrotter ’round in nigh a week, Mr. Potts,” the strumpet remarked coarsely, tossing a triumphant smirk toward her glowering companions. “Ye don’t suppose the li’l beggar’s gone an’ caught her death in the cable tier, now do ye? ‘Twould be a right fittin’ comeuppance for biffin’ me in the nose.”
A small wisp of a woman with limp brown hair pushed her way out of the cluster of women and gave the harlot a crisp retort. “Ye can twist that lyin’ tongue all ye want, Morrisa ‘Atcher, but the lot o’ us know m’liedy give ye no more’n ye deserved. The way ye jabbed her in the ribs when she weren’t lookin’, ye should’ve been the one what spent time in the chain locker! If ‘tweren’t for yer li’l lap-doggie here”—she indicated Potts with scathing abhorrence—“bendin’ Mrs. Fitch’s ear, m’liedy might’ve been allowed ta have her say.”
Setting his beefy arms akimbo, Potts faced the small, feisty woman. “An’ ye, Annie Carver, might’ve done us all a heap o’ good fillin’ our sheets with wind from yer ever-flappin’ tongue. Ain’t no question ’bout it, we’d have run ahead soarin’ free on that gale.”
The sound of dragging chains drifted up from the hold, claiming the swabber’s attention. His small, beady eyes took on a sadistic gleam. “Well, blimey! I thinks I hear m’liedy comin’ now.” Chortling to himself, he lumbered toward the companionway and hunkered down to squint into the shadows below. “Eh, bogtrotter? Be it yer own bloomin’ self comin’ up from ’em lower chambers?”
Shemaine O’Hearn lifted seething green eyes toward the broad silhouette looming over the opening. For daring to defend herself against this oaf’s shipboard doxy, she had spent the last four days isolated in a dank pit in the forward depths of the ship. There she had been forced to scrap with rats and roaches for every morsel of bread that had been tossed to her. If not for her sorely depleted strength, she might have clawed her way up the stairs and raked the tar’s ugly visage with ragged nails, but heavy sarcasm was the most she could muster energy for. “And what other poor wretch would this smelly toad have come to fetch, if not me, Mr. Potts?” she asked, jerking her head to indicate the squat, little man who limped along beside her. “I was sure you had persuaded Mrs. Fitch to reserve those quarters for me alone.”
Potts heaved an exaggerated sigh of displeasure, making much of her disparagement. “There ye go, Sh’maine, insultin’ me friends again.”
Her escort reached out and viciously pinched her arm for a second time since freeing her from the cable tier. Freddy was every bit as mean as Potts and needed no coaxing to take his spite out on anyone who couldn’t fight back. “Watch yer manners, ye highfalutin tootie!”
“I will, Freddy,” she gritted, snatching her arm away from his grubby fingers, “the very day the lot of you learn some.”
Potts’s gruff voice resonated through the companionway. “Ye’d better get up here an’ be quick ’bout it, Sh’maine, or I’ll have ta teach ye ‘nother lesson.”
The girl scoffed at the ogre’s rapidly diminishing leverage. “Captain Fitch may have something to say about your heavy-handed ways if he intends to sell me today.”
“The cap’n may have his say, al’right,” Potts allowed, bestowing a cocky grin upon her as she struggled to make an ascent hindered by weighty iron anklets and chains. “But ever’body knows his missus has the final say on this here voyage.”
Since being hauled in shackles aboard the bark, Shemaine had become convinced that no other place on earth was more akin to the pits of hell than an English prison ship bound for the colonies. And surely, no other person had done as much to advance that belief as Gertrude Turnbull Fitch, wife of its captain and only offspring of J. Horace Turnbull, solitary owner of the London Pride and a small fleet of other merchant ships.
With such a formidable reminder as Gertrude Fitch goading her to be wary, Shemaine paused to readjust a makeshift kerchief over her head. During several outings on deck, her fiery red tresses had incensed the dour-faced virago, causing Gertrude to berate the whole Irish race as a crass, slow-witted lot and to demean Shemaine as a filthy little bogtrotter, a derogatory appellation many an Englishman was wont to lay on the Irish.
“Don’t ye dare dawdle now,” Potts taunted. His pig eyes gleamed overbright, attesting to his penchant for cruelty as he eagerly watched for any infraction that he could pounce on.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” Shemaine muttered testily, emerging from the passageway. The injustices she had suffered during the three-month voyage swept through her mind in bitter recall, sparking her resentment anew until she longed to spit a token of her rancor in the huge lummox’s face. But experience had been a harsh taskmaster since her arrest in London, brutally convincing her that a coolheaded compliance was the only way a prisoner could ever hope to survive in an English court of law or on one of their hell ships.
Averse to revealing any hint of her waning strength, Shemaine managed to drag her encumbered limbs forward with a modicum of dignity. The scourging wind buffeted her, and she braced her bare feet slightly apart to steady herself and straightened her spine with tenacious resolve. The fresh air was a luxury that had become much too rare of late, and she lifted her head to slowly savor the salt-tinged essence of the coastal waters.
Potts’s eyes narrowed as he noted the girl’s stance. It seemed much too proud and undaunted to suit him. “Puttin’ on airs ‘gain, are ye? Like some high-flown doxy from court.” Sweeping a hand downward to indicate her tattered garments, he brayed in loud amusement, “Beggars’ court in Whitefriars, I’d be a-thinkin’!”
Shemaine had no difficulty imagining how pathetic she looked in soiled rags and iron fetters. Though her green velvet riding habit had once drawn envious stares from many overly pampered daughters of wealthy aristocrats (those same who had pettishly bemoaned her betrothal to the most handsome and possibly the richest bachelor in all of London), her present plight might have caused those same ladies to laugh in haughty pleasure.
Shemaine’s forlorn sigh was certainly more heartfelt than feigned. Having known only a life of comfort and ease before her arrest, she had been thrust without cause into a vile prison where the pitifully destitute found naught but hatred, oppression and utter despair. “ ‘Tis indeed a dreadful inconvenience when a gentle-born lady must go abroad without her servants and couturier,” she rejoined in satirical retrospect. “The attendants I’ve dealt with of late have no true ken of loyal service and cannot understand the simplest functions of a pursuivant.”
Though unable to determine where an insult may have been rooted in her words, Potts was nevertheless distrustful. Her genteel way of speaking could make a bloke feel out of sorts with his own tongue, especially one who had run away from home at an early age after his widowed mother had tried to curtail his roaming with ruffians.
Closing a massive fist around the chain dangling between her shackled wrists, Potts hauled Shemaine abruptly forward until her entire vision was filled with the broad, bewhiskered face of her tormentor and a red, cyclopean eye. Even after enduring so many hardships and abuse, the girl still refused to yield him that very thing he craved most, an undeniable feeling of superiority. “Ye mewlin’ Irish bitch!” he snarled, cruelly yanking her fetters. “Ye think ye’re better’n me, don’t ye? Ye an’ yer high-minded ways! Well, ye’re wrong, ye bog-Irish dung. Ye ain’t good enuff ta lick spittle from me boots.”
Shemaine gagged at the rank stench of the sailor’s breath and could not help wincing as the iron bracelets bit cruelly into her wrists. Almost from the first moment she laid eyes on Jacob Potts, she had felt a sharp aversion to the man. By mandate of the captain, the women’s section had been restricted to all but the most trusted members of the crew, but Potts had ignored the edict and, with the pompous arrogance of a sultan perusing his private harem, had paced outside their cell, tempting the more comely ones with stolen food, fresh rainwater, and other necessities until, in desperation, some had given in to his perverted demands. Their shame and humiliation had been agonizingly shared by their cellmates, for no one could escape the realization of what the cad was forcing his victims to do. For those who had turned away in disgust, Potts had proven very vocal in his lecherous demands, painting an obscene image even in the minds of the most innocent among them.
A deep enmity had grown apace with the swabber’s clandestine visits, and except for Morrisa Hatcher, who had worked her wicked wiles upon him, Potts had soon been shunned by all. But the harlot had served her own purposes, exceeding his expectations, ensnaring him in a guileful web until suddenly it was Potts doing Morrisa’s bidding and appeasing her every whim.
Persecuting her most dedicated challenger, Shemaine mused with hostility. Throwing caution aside, she dared to needle the man. “If only Mrs. Fitch knew what you’ve been getting as a reward for telling your lies against me.”
Potts’s temper exploded. The little twit would relish setting that hag against him! “Ye’ll not be tellin’ her, wench! Or ye’ll be gettin’ more o’ this!”
Laying back a brawny arm, Potts let it fly, catching Shemaine’s shoulder just as she sought to duck and sending her reeling clumsily over her chains. His desire for revenge was hardly sated. He wanted to see her cringing before him in absolute terror. Spitefully he swept a canvas-shod toe outward to snare the links trailing from the leg irons, yanking her off her feet.
An indignant yelp of pain escaped Shemaine’s lips as she sprawled backward against the deck’s planking. In actuality the moored ship swayed only slightly against the quay, but for Shemaine, dazed and weak, the creak of timbers seemed to increase apace with the strengthening gusts and the heaving swells that passed beneath the hull until it seemed as if the deck had come alive. Casting a wary glance aloft to where the masts and spars spun in a dizzying blur against the whimsical countenance of a darkly brooding sky, she shuddered as her stomach convulsed at the strangely conflicting motions. Leery of heaving up what little she had eaten, she rolled over and lowered a clammy brow in the crook of her arm as she waited for her queasiness to ebb.
The bosun had turned from his inspection of the male convicts in time to witness the incident and, snatching up his cane, stalked forward irately. “Here now, Potts!” he barked. “Leave that wench be!”
“But, Mistah ‘Arper!” Potts protested. “I was only tryin’ ta protect meself afore this here adder sank her fangs inta me hide.”
James Harper blew out a loud snort of derision. “Aye, Mr. Potts! And the sun sets in the east!”
“I gots witnesses, I do!” Seeking support for his fabrication, Potts glanced around for Morrisa.
“I’ll hear no more lies from you or your lickspittle mate!” Harper retorted, raising the cane threateningly to lend emphasis to his words. A symbol of his authority, the stick had been used on many occasions to smarten dimwits and laggards. “Now listen well, you worthless swabby! I’ve had enough of your buffoonery! If the captain can’t sell that prisoner for what she’s worth, you’ll be getting the best of this stick. Now help her up; damn you, and be gentle about it or you’ll have a proper knot on your noggin.”
Large hands slipped underneath Shemaine before she had fully regained her reason, but reality came washing hotly over her as the greedy hands cupped her soft breasts. With an outraged shriek totally unbecoming a lady, she rolled and kicked out sharply with a bare foot. Her haphazard aim was momentarily calamitous for the heavily endowed Potts. His pained yowl coincided with his backward, splaying fall, and as Shemaine scrambled to her feet, she had the satisfaction of seeing the fellow writhing in agony on the deck.
Prudence dictated that she remove herself swiftly out of sight and reach of the boor, and Shemaine saw a chance to accomplish that objective as some of the women hurriedly beckoned to her. Slipping quickly through their midst, she settled on the hatch cover as they closed ranks around her, concealing her from casual notice. Drawing her legs to her chest and pressing her face to her knees, she made herself as inconspicuous as possible.
Potts staggered to his feet and glared about him, consumed by a vengeful quest to vent his wrath upon the girl. Like an injured bull preparing to charge, he swung his straw-thatched head from side to side as his eyes flicked about in search of her. Through the drab, mundane hues of the women’s tattered garments, he caught sight of a long red tress fluttering like a brightly hued pennant on a buffeting breeze. Curling his lips back from gnashing black-stained teeth, he growled and plowed toward Shemaine with evil intent.
“Potts!” James Harper bellowed sharply. He stalked forward several paces, for it seemed he would have to carry out his threat and beat the hulking loggerhead into submission. “You lay a hand on that wench and I’ll see you flogged until your back is stripped of its hide! That much I promise you!”
The bosun’s shout greeted Captain Fitch as the latter climbed to the quarterdeck behind his wife. Even as the call boy blew his whistle and announced, “Captain on the bridge!” Everette Fitch paused beside the rail to observe Potts’s unfaltering advance on the main deck. Then his gaze swept outward, searching for the intended recipient of the sailor’s assault until he spied the young beauty who had once rebuked him for what she and the other prisoners had regarded a deplorable injustice to one of their number. She had successfully claimed his notice with her scolding that day, but she had also, in her fervor to argue for another’s rights as a human being, unwittingly kindled his lusts. From that moment on, Captain Fitch had found himself driven by a fierce yearning to enjoy all the delights Shemaine O’Hearn could offer a man. If not for Gertrude’s stout stamina and iron-clad stomach resisting the doses of laudanum he had surreptitiously mixed in her wine, the girl would have surely paid the price demanded by his passion. His failure had only made him more desirous of having her, and Fitch had promised himself that upon their arrival in port he would covertly claim the wench for his own and ensconce her in a haven totally removed from his domineering wife. To disguise his infatuation, he had deemed it prudent to modify the punishments heaped upon Shemaine by his wife only when it became apparent that her life would be in jeopardy, but after Harper’s warnings, it seemed reasonable to add his own thundering threat as a further deterrent.
“Cast that swabby in irons if he will not obey!” Fitch bellowed. Then he lowered his voice to a caustic rumble. “And should the blighter damage the wench, stripe his back with a score of lashes for every bruise she bears.”
The stern warning finally penetrated the tar’s thick skull, and Potts stumbled to a halt. Glowering at Shemaine, who had braced herself for flight, he ground out a garbled oath. “Mark me words well, bogtrotter. Be it a fortnight or even a year from now, I’ll make ye rue the day ye laid me low, that ye will.”
Shemaine kept her expression carefully passive, lest the slightest twitch push the man beyond the brink of control. She had escaped injury this time, but once she left the ship, if her new master couldn’t defend her against this churlish lout, she would likely be found and severely punished.
“Potts!” James Harper shouted, commanding the sailor’s attention.
Potts faced his superior, making no attempt to present a guise of respect. “Aye, Mistah ‘Arper? What be ye wants now?”
The seaman’s surly tone ignited Harper’s temper, and he lashed out with a cutting retort. “A hanging from the yardarm for insubordination if I had my way!” He gestured angrily with his cane. “Now, you useless grog-sucker, get below! You’ve earned a three-day stint cleaning the mud-hook’s chains!”
“Come on now, Mistah ‘Arper,” Potts cajoled, waggling his head from side to side. “Here we be, ’bouts ta be given shore leave, an’ I gots an itch in me crotch ta finds meself a doxy or two ta scratch meseif ‘pon.”
“You’ll stroll no further than the limits of the cable locker for the next five days,” Harper rumbled, seething with rage. “Now, Potts, have you anything further to complain about?”
The pig eyes narrowed with almost tangible hostility, but the swabber had no choice but to obey or see his sentence lengthened by several more days. “Nary a thing, Mistah ‘Arper.”
“Good! Then report to the cable tier at once.” Scowling darkly, James Harper briefly marked the huge swabber’s progress, then signaled another seaman to follow and lock Potts in the forward compartment. Curtly dismissing the tar from mind, Harper faced the bosun’s mate and lent his consideration to the matter at hand.
“The male prisoners’ve been accounted for, sir,” the younger man announced as he handed over the list. Then he added for Harper’s ears alone, “Minus the thirty-one what died en route.”
“ ‘Tis an uncommon loss the London Pride has suffered, Mr. Blake,” Harper muttered.
“Aye, sir, an’ seein’s as how ye begged the cap’n not ta let his missus limit the prisoners’ rations afore we left, I figures ye gots good reason ta fret. Another week at sea an’ there wouldna’ve been enough o’ them poor devils alive ta pay for the crew’s vittles, much less our wages.”
Harper’s jaw tensed as he recalled the numerous times he had been required to order the convicts’ bodies hurled overboard, all because the ship’s owner, J. Horace Turnbull, had grown suspicious of the Pride’s accounting from previous voyages and had insisted his daughter accompany her husband on this particular crossing to make a proper evaluation. Having given Gertrude unprecedented authority to examine the ship’s ledgers, the old shipping baron had further instructed her to curb whatever costs she might consider superfluous, a mandate which had reaped dire consequences.
“One must imagine that when Mr. Turnbull gave his daughter leave to use her own judgments, he had no idea he’d be losing more on this voyage than in the last five years we’ve been delivering prisoners to the colonies. In her eagerness to save her father a few shillings, Mrs. Fitch has mindlessly managed to murder no less than a fourth of the prisoners. That should shorten the old man’s profits by several hundred pounds, at least.”
“If Mr. Turnbull thought there was thievin’ goin’ on afore this here voyage,” Roger Blake mumbled grimly, “ye can bet he’ll be thinkin’ it for certain this time.”
“And will no doubt send his precious daughter on the following voyage to take another accounting.” Harper frowned at the gloomy prospect.
“Was Mr. Turnbull right, sir? Be there a thief among us?”
James Harper heaved a laborious sigh. “Whatever the truth, Mr. Blake, I prefer to keep my suspicions to myself.” He shrugged as he added, “Still, if I were to discover the identity of the culprit, I’d be loath to ferret him out for Mrs. Fitch. She’s made it evident she suspects us all of swindling her father.”
“Aye, ta be sure, sir,” Roger Blake heartily agreed. Mrs. Fitch definitely had a way of making an honest seaman feel less than worthy of respect and trust. Even the captain wasn’t excluded from her criticism. She had, however, seemed peculiarly inclined to lend an attentive ear to the babble of Jacob Potts, although that vile tar had the distinction of being despised by their small company of officers and a goodly share of his shipmates.
Casting a glance toward the bridge, Roger Blake mentally laid odds that he would find the older couple locked in another verbal fray and smiled ruefully as he won his bet. The portly pair were at it again, and he knew by experience that Mrs. Fitch would not desist until she had gotten her way. Thankful that he was not encumbered with the likes of that great white whale for a wife, Roger returned to his duties.
Shemaine was able to enjoy a vague sense of relief after the banishment of Potts, but it was not long before the murmuring voices of the other women began to intrude into her awareness. Their fretting comments and morbid speculations on what further hardships they would experience under the authority of their new masters began to trickle down into her consciousness, heightening her dread with a pungent taste of grim reality. Despite the adversities she had been forced to endure since leaving England, she had sought to bolster her courage by clinging to a frail fragment of hope that, by some miracle, her parents or even her fiancé would find out where she had been taken and arrive in time to save her from the fate of being sold as an indentured servant. But as yet, no beloved face had appeared and only a few moments remained before that humiliating event was set to begin.
Shemaine ran her slender fingers beneath the iron band that encircled her wrist in an effort to ease the constant chafing. It was cruel irony that she was even there, but after sipping the bitter draught of English justice firsthand she had ceased to believe that she was the only prisoner aboard the Pride who had been unjustly condemned. Others had received equally harsh sentences for nothing more dastardly than stealing a loaf of bread or expressing a political view, which some of the young Irish hotbloods were wont to do. In spite of the frailty of their crimes and the sheer absurdity of their convictions, their departure as unsavory rabble from the shores of England had been expedited by pompous, bewigged magistrates who had enjoined the gaol keepers to offer royal pardons to any and every felon who would agree to a term of indentured labor in the colonies. The alternatives had made such proposals seem magnanimous. It was either bound servitude beyond the shores of England or a choice between two extremes: a hanging at Triple Tree for more grievous crimes or, for lesser offenses, the probability of rape, murder, or mutilation in the foul pits of Newgate Prison, a place where absolutely no attempt was made to distinguish between or to separate prisoners by gender, age, or severity of offenses.
It was impossible for Shemaine to forget the trauma of being snatched from her family’s stable and, like the foulest offender, hauled into a court of law by an ugly slip of a man who had identified himself only as Ned, the thieftaker. A short, stint in Newgate had taught her the futility of tearful supplications and desperately spoken promises of reward to anyone who would travel to her father’s warehouses in Scotland and take her parents news of her arrest. It had been absurd to think that anyone would believe her guarantee of a weighty purse when she had been confronted by no kinder visage than the stony faces of criminals, gaolers, and their helpless victims.
Later, after she had come aboard the London Pride and witnessed firsthand the travails of others, she had lost all hope of ever finding a sympathetic benefactor. She had seen suckling babes torn from the breasts of desperately pleading mothers, like Annie Carver, who had not foreseen the possibility of her infant being snatched from her arms and sold to a passing stranger. Mere children, with haunted eyes and runnels of unchecked tears streaking down their thin filthy faces, had been left behind on the docks while they watched their only kin led across the gangplank in chains. Other youngsters, convicted of fretfully feeble crimes, had been shackled alongside hardened whoremongers and thieves. The only two to board the Pride had not survived.
Such sights had been an outrageous affront to Shemaine’s sensibilities and carefully nurtured upbringing. She had not even imagined the like of such barbarism until she had seen and experienced it for herself. En masse they had been treated like common vermin, something detestable that had to be spewed forth from the shores of England to make the country fit and clean for a more genteel class of people, no doubt that same breed of aristocrat who had hired a thieftaker to seize her and to concoct a crime that would see her condemned to seven years in prison, just to prevent her from spoiling her fiancé’s sterling heritage with her own Irish-blended blood.
Of late, Shemaine’s memories of her past bliss had grown dim and strangely distant, as if she had but dreamed the princely Maurice du Mercer had asked her to marry him. After all, Maurice was a titled Englishman and could have chosen from a vast assortment of young maidens of the same noble standing as he, whereas she could claim no loftier status than being the solitary offspring of a marriage between a hotheaded Irish merchant and a gracious English lady.
“Impudent little peasant,” countesses had been inclined to whisper whenever Maurice had swept her around in a promenade. Yet the wealth of her father probably would have staggered the wits of self-exalted aristocrats who were so eager to boast of their highly esteemed titles but in truth could lay claim to very little of actual monetary worth. Maurice, on the other hand, had not only been heir to the vast fortunes, estates, and title of his late father, the Marquess of Merlonridge, Phillip du Mercer, he was also the grandson of Edith du Mercer, a most formidable matron and protectress of a lineage well fortified with impeccable credentials.
Still, if the copious bribe which had been offered to her by the elder had not been motivated by bigotry, Shemaine pondered bitterly, why was she here aboard this convict ship and why had she suffered all the degradation of a condemned criminal after her refusal to leave Maurice and England behind her forever? Had she but agreed to the Grand Dame’s terms, it seemed unlikely she would have come to this precise end.
Tears came to blur Shemaine’s vision as waves of anguish washed over her, almost drowning her in a sea of despair, for if Edith du Mercer had indeed connived to have her whisked away from England, then the woman’s schemes had been fully realized. Not only was Shemaine a continent away from home and family, she was about to be cast into bondage and divested of her last shred of hope for deliverance from a way of life for which she was ill prepared. If she did not die of remorse, she would, in all probability, succumb to some other dreaded malady prevalent in the colonies or, if Potts found her, the mayhem he intended.
A thin arm slipped about Shemaine’s shoulder, snatching her abruptly from her doleful reflections. With a start of surprise she glanced around to find Annie Carver watching her curiously.
“A fittin’ justice for ol’ Potts, eh, m’liedy?” the young woman ventured with a tentative smile as she sought a reason for her friend’s tears. “Ye can bet he won’t be gettin’ a chance ta do any more o’ Morrisa’s foul deeds afore we leaves the ship.”
Shemaine was far from convinced that she had seen the last of Potts. “I’d feel considerably more at ease if Mr. Harper would keep that beast locked away in the cable tier until the London Pride sails back to England,” she confided glumly. “Morrisa knows just what it takes to get her bullyboy vexed with me, and she’ll not rest until I’ve been severely punished for defying her these months at sea.”
Annie mentally agreed. Prior to coming face-to-face with Shemaine aboard the ship, Morrisa had successfully coerced her cellmates into giving her the best and greater portion of what little food had been doled out to them. She had fully expected Shemaine to comply as well, for it had been evident that the girl had lived a sheltered, pampered life far above their own. Yet in spite of the harlot’s threats, Shemaine had stood her ground, resisting Morrisa’s every effort to see her broken or brought down. Shemaine had eventually talked the rest of the women into revolting against the strumpet, deepening a virulent hatred. “Aye, ye managed ta set Morrisa awry from yer first encounter. She’s been in a fair ta frothin’ snit ever since.”
The strife the harlot had caused Shemaine had convinced her of one thing. “Morrisa would like nothing better than to carve me up with that little knife of hers. Or better yet to get Potts to do her dirty work for her. She seems to enjoy giving orders, but she prefers others to reap the blame and recompense.”
Annie’s gaze slipped beyond Shemaine and grew noticeably chilled. “Speakin’ o’ the witch, look ‘oo’s comin’.”
Shemaine followed Annie’s pointed stare and released a bleak sigh when she saw Morrisa’s hip-swinging approach. “The devil’s own, no less.”
The dark-eyed harlot simpered smugly as she halted beside Shemaine. “Didn’t like yer stay in the cable tier, eh dearie? Well, I can’t says I blame ye none, though I knows nary ‘nother what deserves ’em chambers more.”
“Oh, I knows one al’right.” Annie cut her eyes meaningfully toward the strumpet.
Lifting her lip in a cynical sneer, Morrisa bestowed a full measure of contempt upon the tiny woman. “Why, if’n it ain’t the dour li’l crab scootin’ ’round on her belly after her liedyship again, like she was hopin’ for a handout in good looks. Well, dearie, ye’re wastin’ yer time with this here bog-Irish scum. Sh’maine ain’t gots none ta spare.”
“I knows me friends,” Annie stated in a flat tone. “An’ I knows me foes, an’ ‘tis sure ye ain’t no friend o’ mine. Truth be, I’d sooner be caught a-molderin’ in a bogtrotter’s grave than cavortin’ with the likes o’ some lecher’s tart.”
Morrisa’s brown eyes flared at the slur, and she hauled back an arm to strike, but she froze in sudden wariness. In contests of brawn she had already discovered that Annie Carver could best any woman twice her size, and a swollen lip or a bruised eye could dissuade a buyer from taking a chance on a bondslave who might prove unruly. Though the urge was great, Morrisa could not bring herself to complete the stroke. Petulantly she lowered her arm and shrugged her shoulders, setting her thinly clad breasts briefly a-jiggle. By the wealth of curves she exhibited, it was not hard to determine that she had suffered no lack of victuals during the long voyage. “Too bad ol’ Potts got carped by the bosun. The bugger might’ve resented ye callin’ me names.”
Shemaine sighed heavily, making much of her lamentation. “Poor, blind Potts. If he only knew how much you truly hated him. Why, he’d squash you like a bothersome gnat.”
Morrisa smirked contentedly. “He wouldn’t believe ye, dearie, even if ye told him. Ye sees, Sh’maine, I knows how ta handle ol’ Potts. ‘Sides, he may be useful ta me in these here colonies. The bloke’s even been talkin’ ’bout jumpin’ ship an’ stayin’ on with me instead o’ sailin’ back ta England. Wouldn’t the two o’ ye be surprised if’n he did?”
Shemaine mentally shivered at the thought. Indeed, she could almost hear the banshees whispering her name. Despite the prickling dread that crawled up her nape, she made a point of growing thoughtful and voiced a possible solution to such a problem. “Perhaps I should warn the one who buys you that he’ll likely get his throat slit by you or your lackey on a leash. I’m sure your master would be able to keep you adequately fettered and out of trouble, at least for a while. Besides, when Potts ceases to be of use to you, you’ll find another buffoon to fetch and carry for you. I doubt that you have it in you to remain loyal to any man longer than it takes for him to hand over your fee.”
Morrisa’s haughty smirk twisted into an enraged grimace. “Ye don’t know when ye’re well off, do ye, Sh’maine! Anyone else would’ve learned by now, but not ye! I has ta pound it inta yer ugly noggin!”
Morrisa lunged at Shemaine with fingers curled into claws, having every intention of gouging those green eyes from their sockets, but the bosun’s shout rang out for a second time, foiling another fight.
“Start anything, ladies,” James Harper warned, using the title loosely, “and I’ll have the both of you keelhauled ‘til your tempers cool!”
Morrisa’s glower conveyed her unabated fury, but the bosun was a man of his word, and such a dreadful threat from him gave her cause to reconsider. Her fingers finally relaxed, and with a flippant toss of her raven mane, she sauntered off, dragging her chains behind her.
The keening cry of a sea eagle pierced the blustering breezes, drawing Shemaine’s gaze to the turbulent clouds churning overhead. Beneath their dark and looming shroud, frightened gulls wheeled on black-tipped wings and dove close to the water in an effort to escape their nemesis, but the erne seemed indifferent to the smaller birds as he casually rode the currents on widespread wings. Mesmerized by his free-spirited flight, Shemaine could almost envision herself mounting to the air on similar wings to escape the ordeal of what the coming moments or even the next seven years would bring. But harsh reality was only a heartbeat away. Chained by iron fetters and forever bound to earth, she could only watch in helpless dismay as the eagle soared beyond her restricted view. His freedom to wander hither and yon brutally mocked the constraints that she and the other prisoners had been subjected to since being convicted in an English court of law.
Annie sighed wistfully beside her. “I’ll be happy ta leave the ship, m’liedy, but I’d be gladder still ta be bought by some kindly folk what gots a wee one or two for me ta tend.”
“Perhaps you will be, Annie.” Seeking encouragement for her friend, Shemaine climbed atop the hatch cover and stretched her own slight frame upward until she could see over the railing. Her gaze flitted over the colonials waiting on the quay for the shipboard sale to begin. To be sure, she was not greatly heartened by what she saw. The chance of Annie being purchased by a young family seemed ridiculously farfetched when she considered the potential buyers. Gray-haired men with pallid skin and short, plump wives; landowners with bald pates; and spinsterish-looking women with thin, hatchet faces seemed the primary choices. Only one man stood apart from the rest in both distance and appearance. He was definitely young enough to lend some hope for the gratification of Annie’s aspirations, yet his sharply brooding scowl was formidable. The other settlers eyed him furtively, as if afraid of meeting his stoic gaze, which did little to ease Shemaine’s own speculations about the man. Yet, for all of the others’ diffidence, he seemed to be the main reason for their incessant chatter.
James Harper approached the women and took a ring of keys from his belt as his gaze flitted over them. Gertrude Fitch had not allowed the female prisoners to come on deck and bathe in sight of the men in preparation of the sale. Instead, she had sent down a scant bar of soap and two buckets of water which they had immediately fought over and wasted. Three months at sea had taken its toll, for they looked no better than the poorest beggars of London. The odds of getting a fair price for any of them seemed remote, which of course would serve Turnbull’s meddling daughter her proper due for not supplying ample rations and being so rigidly opposed to the crew viewing a naked breast, buttock, or two. When the women were all so scrawny and starved looking, a skeptical eyebrow was probably the most a glimpse would have raised.
“All right, ladies! Look lively now!” Harper bade, attempting a cheery tone. “Come now, and let us set you free. We can’t let these colonial bumpkins see you in irons, now can we? ‘Tisn’t the end of the world, I’ll warrant, but the beginning of a whole new life for all of you.”
“Says ‘oo?” an aging crone squawked.
Morrisa chortled and strode forward to challenge the bosun. “Why, Jamie, me boy, do ye think ’em irons matter a wit ta these here pilgrims? I heared it said more’n a few o’ ’em blighters were sent o’er in chains just like the rest o’ us poor buggers.”
James Harper deliberately ignored the strumpet as he handed Roger Blake a single key and indicated the leg irons. “Loose their garters, mate, while I get their bracelets. . . .”
On the quarterdeck, Captain Fitch wiped his glistening brow with a rumpled handkerchief as he stepped to the rail. Having finally acquiesced to the demands of his domineering wife, he called down to the bosun. “Mr. Harper, would you be kind enough to come up to the bridge.” Fitch’s frustration roiled like bitter acid in his stomach, for he could only wonder how his plans for a tryst were to succeed when his wife would be scrutinizing the sale of convicts with her usual tenacity. At the moment he wasn’t the least bit desirous of masking her dictates with subtlety. “Mrs. Fitch wishes to make it clear to all concerned that she’s to be given every opportunity to oversee the transactions completed here today.”
“Aye, Captain,” Harper responded, wondering just when Mrs. Fitch would take it upon herself to don her husband’s breeches and assume full control of the ship. He greatly resented her intrusion into the normal protocol of the bark, but then, it was neither his vessel nor his command. “Right away, sir.”
Harper faced the prisoners again. “Step in line, ladies, and let Mr. Blake strike those chains from you.”
In dutiful respect to his captain, Harper handed the keys over to the bosun’s mate and climbed to the bridge, leaving the younger man to carry out the inspection of the female prisoners, a task Harper did not especially envy. It made him uncomfortable to treat them like dumb animals being readied for sale. Some seemed as young and innocent as his own dear sweet sister.
Approaching the couple, Harper nodded crisply to his superior and then met the snobbish stare Gertrude fixed upon him. “Good day, madam.”
“Mr. Harper!” Her voice was normally loud and even more so when she was determined to take charge of a situation, which apparently was now. “As you know, I have a direct interest in the proceedings aboard this vessel, and I wish to be kept apprised of every offer that is made before a sale of a convict is finalized. ‘Twill enable me to keep a better record for my father. Do you understand?”
Since her sire owned the Pride, how could anyone on the ship ignore her behest? Captain Fitch had certainly seemed unable to. “As you wish, madam.”
“There is another matter which greatly disturbs me, Mr. Harper,” she informed him brusquely. “I don’t approve of you locking Jacob Potts in the cable tier. The man has been beneficial in keeping me abreast of the prisoners’ activities and willful violations of my orders. You’ll rescind your directive at once and set the man at liberty.”
Harper’s jaw tensed, and it was with a hard-won guise of control that he presented his arguments against her edict. “Your pardon, madam. The man was deliberately insubordinate, and if I’m forced to negate his punishment, I’ll no longer have any influence over the crew. ‘Twould be folly to do so, madam.”
Captain Fitch struggled to master his own ire. The fact that his wife had lent credence to the prattle of a common swabber was further cause to be offended by her presence aboard the Pride. An experienced officer would have considered the source and been suspicious of the tar’s motives. “Gertrude, the bosun is right—”
“Nevertheless, Mr. Harper,” she interrupted rudely, pointedly ignoring her husband. “You’ll cancel your order or I’ll see that Captain Fitch dismisses you from this ship forthwith!”
“Gertrude!” Fitch was appalled by her threat and hastened to dissuade her without causing an out-and-out rift with her father. “You cannot expect me to dismiss a man for doing his duty!”
“I expect you to remember who owns this ship!” Gertrude snapped.
“How can I forget when you constantly remind me?” her husband shot back.
“You forget yourself, Everette,” Gertrude rumbled in a low, assertive tone as he scowled back at her. “I hope I won’t have to make mention of this occasion to Papa.”
James Harper resented the woman’s manipulation of power but was hardly in a position to complain. Vowing never to sail on another ship with her, he drew himself up with all the dignity of a merchant seaman and forced himself to verbalize his words carefully, finding it difficult to speak in anything less than a roar. “Madam, I’ve always taken my orders directly from the captain. If he charges me to set Potts at liberty, then I’ll have no other choice do so.”
Knowing that he dumped the full weight of responsibility on his superior, Harper faced the older man and waited for the necessary dictum, which Fitch seemed reluctant to issue.
“Go about your business, Mr. Harper,” Fitch finally urged. “We will confer on this matter at a more convenient time.”
“Everette Fitch!” Gertrude’s ponderous bosom tested the restraints of her bodice as she puffed up like an outraged walrus. “Do you mean to say that you’re going to let Mr. Harper get away with ignoring my wishes? If you will not make him do what I say, then perhaps Papa will have to remind you just where your loyalties should be fixed. He’ll be arriving in New York on the Black Prince ere we leave port, and I’m sure he’ll have something to say about your behavior today.”
Captain Fitch managed to hide his annoyance behind a polite but stilted manner. He had learned by experience that to rile Gertrude was to invite the wrath of her father, who had never demonstrated compassion toward anyone, least of all to those who provoked him or his daughter. If not for the fact that Turnbull was sole owner of the London Pride, Fitch would have halted Gertrude’s intrusions at the very start of the voyage, but he had been unable to forget who controlled the purse strings. It was one of the pitfalls of marrying for wealth, of which he had been able to enjoy very little. Except for the moneys he had managed to pilfer here and there, the greater bulk of Turnbull’s wealth had remained inaccessible to him, and that goaded him unmercifully, for Horace Turnbull was rich beyond belief.
“Your pardon, Gertrude. I thought it prudent to wait and handle this matter after most of the crew have left the ship so they won’t be aware of Potts’s release.”
Like an oversized cat, Gertrude snuggled her head back into the folds of her neck and smiled serenely, content that she would get her way. Jacob Potts had kept her abreast of the quick-tempered antics of a certain Irish chit who had foolishly upbraided her and her husband as if they were naught but wayward children. Shemaine’s criticism had been initiated by the flogging of Annie Carver which had taken place shortly after their departure from England. It was the least the lackluster mouse had deserved for trying to kill herself after the loss of her babe, but Shemaine O’Hearn had deserved much more for daring to confront them about their treatment of the guttersnipe in front of the crew and the other convicts. Thereafter, Gertrude had yearned to see the girl’s lifeless body dropped into the depths of the sea and, in that quest, had sought to exact the ultimate revenge. But no amount of arguing could sway Everette or get him to agree to anything more stringent than four days of isolation and limited rations for the Irish tart. Though he had also been the recipient of Shemaine’s railing criticism that day, he had merely shrugged off the incident, saying that none of it had been his doing anyway and the blame lay solely on the one who had started it all by issuing orders for Annie’s baby to be taken from her and sold.
Bracing a hand on the rail, Gertrude gazed down upon the one whom she had twice condemned to a secluded stay in the chain locker. A frayed, dingy kerchief covered the fiery tresses, but even as crude as the headpiece was, it failed to detract from the winsome beauty of the oval face and the large, emerald eyes that slanted upward beneath delicately sweeping brows. Glimpsing a hint of a water sprite or even a fairy queen in Shemaine’s fragile beauty and thin willowy form, Gertrude yielded to her own shrewish nature.
“Look who’s been let out of the murky depths,” she heckled, drawing the younger woman’s gaze swiftly upward. “Why, you’ve been down there so long, your toes must be webbed! And how quaint! You’ve made some adjustments to your appearance. But do you not ken, Shemaine? A red-haired witch is hard to disguise.”
If anyone was a witch, Shemaine mentally scoffed, then surely it was this overstuffed grouse who, with her wickedly vindictive ways, had pecked away at the lives of the prisoners. Snatching the kerchief from her head, Shemaine threw caution literally to the wind and let the bright strands of hair whip out around her in riotous confusion, silently challenging the older woman, whose face slowly contorted with murderous hatred.
“You’re a vile witch, Shemaine O’Hearn,” Gertrude hissed through gnashing teeth. “I pity the fool who’ll buy you!”
Of a sudden, the scudding breezes strengthened and swept across the deck, snatching Shemaine from a morass of morbid uncertainty as she met Gertrude’s blazing glower. It dawned on her that she had much to be grateful for, for she had proven herself capable of existing under the most intolerable conditions, many of which this woman had purposely created. Yet, for all of the abuse and venomous reproofs she had endured, Shemaine knew, without a doubt, that she was still wonderfully, desperately alive! And that achievement was truly a thing to be thankful for!
“And a very good day to you, Mrs. Fitch,” she called, lending a cheeriness to her Irish-infected greeting despite her aversion to the termagant. “Did I not tell you I’d survive the pit again, and here I am for yourself to see!”
Gertrude’s lips tightened in a sneer. “More’s the pity, Shemaine. More’s the pity. But then, you may not be so lucky in the next seven years.”