Sara Dane

by Catherine Gaskin

  He lapsed into silence, sullenly chewing his lips, staring at the toe of his boot stretched out before him. He slightly raised his leg in its well-fitting, unpolished boot; the sight of it seemed to please him, for after another minute his eyes again sought Sara’s, and he no longer frowned.

  He said quietly, ‘The master of an inn is always concerned for those who pass his door by night ‒ and for those who hide in a ditch beside it.’ He tapped the heel of his boot on the floor, still speaking softly. ‘You’ve been lying to me, Liza. Every word you’ve said is a lie. But I’ll have the truth before long. Who are you? Where have you come from?’

  She said nothing.

  He leaned forward to the edge of his chair; his voice was no longer patient. ‘Answer me! Do you hear … answer me!’

  Sara’s back was straight and rigid against the high settle. She knew that her story, slight and clumsily concocted, would not be believed. He would keep questioning her until he got the truth ‒ and the truth would worsen, not better, her situation. He would then know that he might, without fear, keep her here at the inn for as long as he chose. Pursuit would not seek her in a place shunned as The Angel was. This man before her, cleverer than others of his kind, in an unbalanced, crazy fashion, was more than likely the organizer of the gang of smugglers reputed to use the place as a store and a rendezvous. In the fanatical brightness of his eyes she saw no pity ‒ she would be a thing to be used as his mother was, as Daniel was. Her mind flinched at the thought of what she faced until the time when she could escape, or he should tire of her.

  ‘Answer me!’ he shouted. He raised his hand impatiently ‒ his own strength seemed to be a constant temptation to him.

  She said slowly, ‘I …’

  Abruptly his attention left her. He looked, with an attitude of wariness, towards the door. He had caught, above the wind, the sound of horses’ hoofs on the cobblestones outside. He sprang to his feet, and snuffed out all but one of the candles.

  Sara watched with awe and a new fear as he stood there, massive, solidly planted on his outstretched feet, gazing expectantly at the door.

  They heard the thunderous hammering of fists on the panels. A man’s voice cried out, ‘Open up, there!’

  Harry did nothing. He did not speak, but there was uncertainty in his face. He took a step forward, then hesitated. His mother came silently from the passage to the kitchen, her candle a second point of light in the dimness.

  The hammering sounded again, authoritative and peremptory. ‘Open up, there! My horse is lamed. I need shelter!’ The man outside waited a moment, and then he knocked a third time. ‘Open up! Open up!’

  Sara looked despairingly from Harry to the door. Whoever knocked was no associate of the pair here; it was someone who, innocent of the inn’s character, or in desperation, had sought shelter from the night. Her mind moved quickly. Dare she risk an appeal to him for help ‒ or at least make him aware of her presence before they hustled her out of sight? From Harry she could expect no pity, but from the stranger outside there might be a slight chance of protection. The smarting of her face, and the memory of the large hands upon her body, told her that she would fare no worse with this other man, whoever he might be.

  She sprang off the settle, avoiding Harry’s arm suddenly outstretched to apprehend her, and ran to the door. The latch yielded easily, and in the cold rush of wind and rain, she stumbled out against the solid form of a man.

  ‘Good God! What’s this?’

  The stranger steadied her with his hands upon her shoulders. In the darkness it was impossible to see. He led her back, fumblingly, into the room.

  Harry moved forward and slammed the door with a savage kick.

  The wildly flickering candle-light steadied, and Sara found herself gazing up into the astonished face of Sir Geoffrey Watson.

  Sara was charged with stealing Sir Geoffrey’s three guineas and a gold ring belonging to Richard Barwell. She was tried at the next Quarter Sessions, convicted, and sentenced to seven years’ transportation.

  She knew afterwards that meekness and a repentant attitude might have saved her; if she had had the sense to go on her knees to Sir Geoffrey, if she had even told him the true reason why she had run away, he might never have brought the charges against her. But she was unable to bring herself to the point of telling him of her love for Richard, and so she had to listen to him rage on about her base ingratitude, and the notion that he had once trusted her.

  During the trial she listened to Harry Turner tell how he had found her, a stranger, attempting to steal food from his kitchen. By repute, Harry was far more guilty than she, but for lack or evidence, he was still entitled to be called an innocent inn keeper, and qualified to give evidence against her. It mattered nothing to the jury that he denied all other knowledge of her; her very presence at The Angel was enough to convict her. There was no possible appeal against Sir Geoffrey’s evidence; he told the court that he had given her the money to outfit herself for service with his sister, and that she had run away from Bramfield with the gold and Richard Barwell’s ring tied into her handkerchief.

  Against one charge Sara had no logical defence; on the other charge she preferred to remain silent. She knew she could not stand before that disapproving, interested court, and tell them that Richard had given her the ring as a pledge ‒ she couldn’t bear to hear them murmur and whisper among themselves that she, a servant and the daughter of a man whose name had been dragged through the gutters of Rye, had aspired to marry the parson’s son.

  Sara’s defence ‒ indignant and confused ‒ was useless. The sentence of transportation came promptly.

  ‘It is the judgement of this court that you shall be transported beyond the seas to such place as His Majesty, with the advice of his Privy Council, shall declare and appoint …’

  The people of Rye were loud in their opinion that she was lucky to have escaped hanging.

  She had plenty of time, while she waited in the stinking, fever-ridden chaos of a prison for a transport to Botany Bay, to think back to the events of the day when she had run away from the rectory. Sometimes she wondered how she could have been mad enough to have acted on the impulse of wounded pride and disappointment; she cursed her own stupidity in looking upon Sir Geoffrey’s three guineas as her own, to do as she pleased with. She rejected the idea of appealing to Richard ‒ he had not been present at the trial and certainly he could do nothing to alter her sentence. In her bewilderment and anger she felt she never wanted to lay eyes on Richard again.

  Shortly after she was sentenced, she was moved from the gaol in Rye to Newgate, to wait there until the transport was ready at Woolwich. She learned the lessons of this new world quickly and brutally; weaklings and fools did not survive long, and so she learned to have no concern for any other woman but herself. In order to exist at all she had to be as cruel and feelingless as the rest of them. She meant to survive her term of imprisonment, so she bent her energies towards doing it with the least possible trouble.

  When she first went to prison she had only the money from the sale of the few belongings she had been allowed to take from Bramfield. This ran out much too quickly, and soon after she arrived at Newgate she found herself relying upon the indifferent mercy of the gaoler for her food. Her hunger made her savage, but she managed to hold off the one sure way of making money still open to her ‒ prostitution. The gaolers permitted it, and encouraged it because it was their best source of revenue. But Sara watched the women crazy and dying from the results of it, and she decided that she could go hungry a little longer.

  After a month in Newgate she managed to attach herself to a woman called Charlotte Barker, a middle-aged forger who had received a sentence of three years’ imprisonment. Charlotte lived in great style, paying the gaolers liberally for the food they brought in, and receiving visitors every day. She had brought to prison with her an extensive wardrobe and dishes for her own use. Sara performed little services for her, wrote letters, washed and mended her cloth
es. In return this woman kept Sara in food, and made her presents of odd sums of money. She would never allow any of the fashionably dressed men who often called on her to have anything to do with Sara ‒ and for her part, as long as she had food in her stomach, Sara was glad to be left alone.

  Five months after her trial she received Richard’s letter. It had been written from his regiment in Hampshire, the day after he received news of her sentence. The letter was months out of date, addressed to the gaol at Rye, and the many greasy fingers which had handled it had almost obliterated her name. She had little idea how it had finally reached Newgate, but certainly the sum of money he mentioned enclosing was not with it. That was hardly to be expected after it had been passed round among thieves.

  Richard’s letter was a cry of distress at the news of her sentence ‒ and he begged her to write and tell him in what way he could help. But his horror wasn’t strong enough to cover the doubts he felt ‒ he never mentioned the question of her innocence or guilt. Sara knew instantly that he believed she was guilty; and he was struggling with a wavering loyalty to make himself write the letter offering his help. It was a kind and gentle letter, the letter of a friend ‒ but not of a lover.

  She folded the greasy paper carefully, and went to Charlotte Barker to beg her to write to Richard in Hampshire telling him that Sara Dane had already left on a transport for Botany Bay.

  She felt oddly calm when the letter was written and sent off. After that she tried not to think of Richard again ‒ and she partially succeeded. The business of keeping alive, or surviving from day to day, absorbed her, and the world of Richard and Bramfield seemed to fade; she dreamed less and less of the winding dyke roads, of the cries of the gulls on the shore. The crude realities of the prison were themselves effectively shutting off the past; Sara even began to doubt that she had ever known such men as her father and Richard Barwell.

  She embarked with the other women in the Georgette, off Woolwich in mid-December, and by the time the ship finally took on her full cargo and crew, and slipped down the Thames in early February, Sara’s money was exhausted. She spent the months of the voyage cramped in the perpetual dimness of the gun deck, with a daily spell of exercise on the upper deck when the weather was fair. Discipline was strict on board, which meant that the crew were prevented from mixing with the women prisoners, as happened on other transports. The food, although it was inadequate, was fairly distributed; but still the stronger ones always seemed to be in possession of more than their share. The bitter law of the prisons remained in force here, and the weakest suffered.

  III

  When Andrew Maclay had appeared in the women’s quarters and called her name, Sara knew at once what was going to happen. After the burial of Mrs. Ryder’s servant that morning, the gun deck had buzzed with speculation about who would be selected to fill her place. They all knew Mrs. Ryder by sight, and they knew from the ship’s gossip that she was frequently ill. They had seen the two lively children, and had the opinion that it would need more than a sick woman to keep them under control. The chattering prisoners had decided that one of them would be needed, and they waited hourly for the summons.

  It was unfortunate, Sara decided, that the second officer had chosen just that moment to arrive. She knew she had made a bad impression on Maclay ‒ she knew just how the scene of struggling, clawing women had appeared to him, and she, with her dirty bundle of food, must have seemed vulgar and coarse. She glanced sideways at his face as they walked almost abreast towards the quarter-deck cabins. He might give a bad report of her to Mrs. Ryder, she thought, but that wasn’t the deciding factor. There was some particular reason why she had been picked from among the others, and that reason still held good. If she was being given a chance to act as Mrs. Ryder’s servant she wasn’t going to have it spoiled by a lack of proper humility and decorum. If Mrs. Ryder expected to see a girl with a meek, pliable manner, she was going to find her. Sara’s hands went to her hair, and she furtively tucked up some of the straying ends. She looked ruefully at her filthy gown, in which the rents were almost indecent, and hoped that Mrs. Ryder was prepared to make allowances for her appearance. Whatever happened she was determined that she was going to have this chance.

  They entered the quarter-deck companion-way, and she clenched her hands tightly in the first feeling of real emotion she had experienced since the arrival of Richard’s letter.

  Andrew Maclay paused outside one of the cabins.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, over his shoulder, as he rapped on the door.

  Mrs. Ryder’s voice called to him to come in. She was lying on her bunk, and she smiled when she saw Andrew. The cabin was a little darkened against the direct light from the port-hole and he could not see her very clearly. She was not much past thirty-five, still very pretty ‒ a slight woman, dark, and rather ill-looking from the interminable voyage and the sea-sickness which kept her too often in her cabin. She was wrapped in a loose, yellow silk gown. Andrew’s eyes lightened at the sight of her; he found Julia Ryder gentle and easy to talk with. She had a sweetness about her which appealed strongly to him.

  ‘Good afternoon, ma’am,’ he said, bowing. ‘I trust you are feeling better?’

  ‘Indeed, yes, Mr. Maclay, thank you.’

  She was looking at him questioningly.

  ‘Your husband discussed your need of another servant with the Captain at dinner, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought the convict woman, Sara Dane.’

  ‘Sara Dane!’ Mrs. Ryder half sat up. ‘But this is excellent, Mr. Maclay! I hadn’t truly hoped for such good news! It seemed barely possible that she would be aboard with us.’

  He looked a little confused. ‘I trust she will fit your requirements, ma’am. She has, after all, been a prisoner for some considerable time. Perhaps she isn’t … er … quite suitable.’

  She smiled, putting her head on one side. ‘Is she as bad as that, Mr. Maclay?’

  He thought a moment before he replied. ‘She’s a convict, ma’am. I know nothing else about her.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but at least she is trained in domestic duties. I might have combed the ship and still not found …’ She didn’t finish her sentence; she looked at him directly. ‘I know what to expect from Sara Dane. She will be illiterate and coarse, and probably immoral. But I’m desperate for help with Ellen and Charles. I must take this chance when it’s offered.’

  He wondered if he should try to tell her that Sara Dane did not fit her description very well. But he had no time, because she spoke again, rather quickly.

  ‘Is she waiting? Please show her in, Mr. Maclay.’

  He opened the door and motioned his charge into the cabin. She stood in front of them, lowering her eyes before their inspection. Andrew was shocked at the contrast between the two women. He saw Mrs. Ryder’s eyebrows lift, and her face contract in dismay. Her mouth opened slightly, making him immediately aware that this was the first time she had seen one of these creatures at such close quarters.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said feebly.

  The other dropped a curtsy, but did not speak.

  Mrs. Ryder glanced helplessly at Andrew.

  ‘You are Sara Dane?’ she said at last.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Mrs. Templeton, of Rye, wrote me that you might possibly be on board with us. She said you were experienced in domestic duties. Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Have you ever taken care of children?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Mmm …’ Mrs. Ryder looked doubtful. ‘Can you sew?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you can read?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘You can?’ Mrs. Ryder relaxed noticeably. ‘Can you write?’

  The question seemed to touch Sara Dane’s pride. She stiffened her shoulders, and her head was raised until she looked down under the lashes.

  ‘Of course, I can write,’ she said shortly.

  ‘Oh, indeed!�
�� Mrs. Ryder’s gaze was suddenly cold as it rested on the woman before her. Andrew was half-afraid now, realizing that two strong personalities had met and already there were signs of a battle for supremacy. He saw that Sara Dane was no longer demure, her eyes had grown bright and her mouth was set in a determined line.

  ‘You interest me,’ the older woman said quietly. ‘What other accomplishments have you?’

  The other, apparently unafraid, answered, ‘I speak and read French and Latin. And Italian, too, a little.’ She finished up ‒ defiantly, Andrew thought, ‘And I can do mathematics.’

  Julia Ryder’s expression altered swiftly.

  The little baggage! Andrew thought, aware of a growing admiration for her spirit. All Sara Dane’s meekness was gone now; she wasn’t, obviously, the sort to be content to hide her light under a bushel for long. She was making it evident that the Ryders had found a treasure where they hadn’t expected it.

  Mrs. Ryder spoke again. ‘How old are you, Dane?’

  ‘Eighteen, ma’am.’

  ‘Eighteen, only? What crime were you convicted of, pray?’

  The ragged figure stirred uneasily, glancing quickly from the woman lying on the bunk to the young officer who stood before her. It was an eloquent gesture, conveying to Andrew a sense of misery and wretchedness. Then she looked away.

  ‘Come, child!’ Mrs. Ryder urged. ‘Tell me what it was.’

  Sara Dane’s eyes came slowly back to her.

  ‘I was convicted of theft,’ she said.

  Andrew recalled the conversation at the captain’s dinner table ‒ the preachers and the poachers, the petty thieves who filled the courts and prisons. He looked at the girl a trifle sadly, remembering that a short time ago he had loudly defended her and all her kind. He reflected that it was all very well to defend them when they were an anonymous mass, and didn’t touch him in any way. But when they emerged sharply as individuals, such as this woman, who had education, some breeding, and still had kept her pride, spirit and a touch of humour ‒ then the issue was suddenly confused. It was too close to him; in the space of a few minutes it had become something personal. He was bewildered and a trifle unhappy.