“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.”
CHAPTER 2
The call boy blew his whistle, giving the signal for the waiting crowd of colonials to come aboard. Though most of the men had come to the ship intending to acquire field hands, they strolled leisurely past the female convicts as if seriously disposed toward making a purchase, at least until they reached Morrisa, who had settled in a provocative stance near the mizzenmast. They stared agog at her overt display and seemed unable to turn away. Their wives and other townswomen passed her by, lifting their noses in obvious disdain, and devoted their consideration to more practical possibilities. A short, balding man gaped in slack-jawed awe at the harlot’s generous proportions, but when he made an attempt to question her, Morrisa waved him away in annoyance.
“Go ‘way, li’l toad,” she snapped. “I’m lookin’ for a real man ta buy me.”
The man’s face darkened to a mottled red as he glowered at her, but Morrisa drew her lips back in distaste and made a hissing sound as if she were a snake frightening off a predator. Highly offended, he stumbled back a few steps and straightened his coat with an angry jerk.
“They drown witches here, ye know!” he warned direly. Then he sniffed in sharp disfavor and stalked off to join another handful of men who were scrutinizing Shemaine and some of the younger women.
It was almost more than Shemaine could bear to have the settlers sizing her up like so much merchandise. For this one and that, she had to stand and submit to a careful inspection of her teeth, hands, and arms. Her polite answers elicited approving nods from the women, but the warming glint in the men’s eyes conveyed a more lurid imagination. The idea that she could be purchased merely to appease a prurient appetite was completely appalling, and she breathed a desperate plea that she would soon be bought by a kindly mistress who might patiently instruct her on the duties of a household servant.
“You women there!” James Harper called from the rail. “Step over here at once and give this man your attention!” He jerked a thumb to indicate a tall, dark-haired colonial who stood beside him. “His name is Gage Thornton, and he’s here in search of a nursemaid to care for his two-year-old son.”
A flurry of conjectures arose from the townspeople, and they gawked at the man as if he had suddenly grown two heads. Though Shemaine recognized him as the one who had kept to himself on the wharf, and the only one of the lot whom she had deemed young enough to offer some hope of fulfilling Annie’s wishes, she could not fathom the reason for the amount of attention he was receiving.
Shemaine gave the tiny woman a gentle shove to encourage her. “Hurry, Annie! This may be your only chance!”
Annie was eager to comply and wasted no time in her attempt to be at the vanguard of those who surged forward. It was apparent from the enthusiasm of the other females that they, too, wanted the position Mr. Thornton offered. Young and old alike shoved and clawed their way toward him, for without a doubt the duties of nursemaid were greatly desired above those of a scullery maid, a field hand or the like.
“Remember you are ladies,” Harper cautioned, wondering if he would soon have to quell the ruckus.
Shemaine was the only woman who refrained from joining the melee, but a deepening curiosity began to take root as she regarded the man. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, as if he had left some important task behind to make his way to the ship, yet his tense frown and rigid jaw strongly hinted of his distaste for the errand he was on, especially since it seemed likely he would be caught in the midst of an eye-gouging fray. Grimy fingers clung to the homespun shirt and hide breeches that covered the man’s frame, while some women, with admiring oos and ahhs, were bold enough to stroke the torpid bulge casually defined by the clinging deerskin.
“Ladies!” Harper chided testily. “Hands off the buyer, please!”
“Awwh, mate,” a snaggletoothed doxy grumbled in exaggerated disappointment. “He’s the finest bloke we’ve seen in a goodly time, that he is! ‘Sides, we can’t sees where a li’l lovin’ fondle would hurt the bloke none. Saints alive! We needs it more’n him!”
Three months sharing the same cell with these women had not been nearly enough time to dull Shemaine’s sense of propriety. Acutely embarrassed for her gender, she also sensed the colonial’s annoyance as he briefly lifted his gaze skyward. If he had sudden regrets about coming aboard the London Pride or, by chance, was silently pleading for intervention from above, it was much too late for either. Among her companions he remained the center of attention, and with good reason, Shemaine had to admit.
In a face that was intensely handsome and tanned golden by the sun, his eyes gleamed like warm brown crystals shot through with shards of amber. Shadowed by brooding, well-defined brows, they were darkly lashed and wonderfully translucent. His nose was thin and sculptured with a subtle, aristocratic curve that any noble Grecian might have envied. His cheekbones would have been equally coveted, for they were leanly fleshed and pleasantly prominent. Devoid of a beard, the jaw and chin were crisply wrought beneath bronzed skin. It was entirely a man’s face and no less the torso beneath it.
He stood nearly a head taller than the stockier Mr. Harper, and though he was neither massively built nor one of great overwhelming brawn, his wide shoulders were sleekly buttressed by a tautly muscled chest that tapered to a trim waist and narrow hips. If the iron-thewed arms were any indication, then the rest of him had to be as hard as tempered steel.
The settler’s expression grew pained as his eyes slowly scanned the women who stood around him. When Morrisa elbowed her way toward him, rudely displacing another with a sharp nudge of her hip, his dark eyebrows came together with the intensity of a thunderclap. He didn’t seem the least bit intrigued by the transparency of her sagging blouse, only annoyed by her impertinence.
“Ain’t ye a handsome bloke,” the strumpet cooed. Coyly tracing a finger along his forearm, she smiled up at him. “Me name’s Morrisa Hatcher, gov’na, an’ I’d be o’erwhelmed with delight ta
tend yer chit.”
Gage Thornton was now convinced that he had come on a fool’s errand. Only a short time ago he had been resolved to ignore the inevitable brashness of the female prisoners on the slim chance that among them he might find one who would meet his qualifications, but he was quickly losing patience with this whole preposterous idea of his. How could he, even in his wildest imagination, have ever hoped to obtain from such an unlikely source so rare an acquisition as he had mentally conjured? Perhaps his desperation had surpassed even the degree he had realized it had reached. He was determined to accept nothing less than his ideal, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that the kind of woman he was looking for wasn’t to be found aboard a convict ship.
“I have different qualifications in mind than the ones you generously display, Miss Hatcher. I’m afraid you do not suit my purposes.”
Morrisa nodded knowingly as she jeered, “Afraid o’ yer wife, are ye?”
Gage felt his vitals slowly twist with indignation. This woman had no idea, of course, what he had gone through since Victoria’s death, and certainly no stormy retort would enlighten her. “Your pardon,” he replied succinctly. “My wife was killed in an accident a year ago. Were she alive today, I assure you I wouldn’t be on this damn fool errand.”
Timidly Annie stepped forward to tug at the man’s sleeve. “Me name’s Annie Carver, sir. Me own babe was sold soon after I boarded the ship, so ‘tis me earnest wish ta have a wee one ta care for. I can promise ye I’d cherish yer son as me very own, sir.” She blushed in sudden confusion and wrung her hands as she added, “That is, if ye’d be o’ a mind ta lay out the coins ta buy me.”
Petals on the River Page 3