“Is there any news of my brother?” he asked the hovering footman.
“No, Your Highness, not yet. Would you care for more wine?”
Charles looked at the empty bottle with some surprise. He didn’t remember drinking all that. For a moment he was tempted to call for brandy, drink himself into blissful oblivion at his brother’s expense.
“No, thank you,” he said, forcing a smile. “I will go home.”
“I will arrange for a carriage, Your Highness,” the footman offered.
“God, no.” Charles laughed. It was ridiculous getting in a carriage to travel to his house, which was next door to his brother’s. To hell with protocol. “I will walk,” he announced. “The fresh air will revive me. Please notify me the moment you hear from my brother.”
The footman agreed and bowed again, before showing the young prince out.
Once outside, Charles stretched his arms, then set off for home at a brisk walk. As he had hoped, the fresh air and activity did help him to ward off the cloud of despair that had threatened to overwhelm him in Henry’s tedious library.
It was not over yet. He still had an ace up his sleeve. He would marry. He had hoped to marry a daughter of King Louis, but he realised that if he pushed for that the wily old bastard would probably prevaricate until all his daughters were past childbearing age. And even if he were to achieve a marriage with France, there was no guarantee that Louis would finance an invasion of England even then.
No, perhaps it would be better to look further afield for a suitable bride. Russia, maybe. He could offer for the hand of the Czarina Elizabeth. She was much older than he was, but still of childbearing age, and was no doubt desperate to marry someone who could give her an heir. He could certainly do that! In lieu of a dowry, he would ask for twenty thousand Russian troops, and would use them to invade England and send the Hanoverians packing back to Germany where they belonged.
The crisp night air had done its job now, and he was fully awake. He would sit down this very night and pen a letter to his father outlining his idea. Surely James would find no obstacles to put forward to this? It was an excellent plan! Then he could finally free himself from the grand procrastinator Louis, and at the same time free his beloved, loyal Highlanders from the terrible fate they were now enduring for his sake.
He would make it right. He had to make it right. It was not only his destiny, but his duty to do so.
CHAPTER ONE
Liverpool, April 1747
The sixteen women, most of them dressed in filthy rags, stood shivering in a little group on the quayside, waiting to board the ship that was going to take them to hell. They were guarded by a troop of armed militia men. Some of the men proudly sported the uniform blue coat, while the rest wore their everyday clothes. Most of them were very young.
Beth Cunningham, standing in the centre of the group, the only woman wearing a decent, although none-too-clean dress, and the only one in irons, surveyed the enemy and reflected that five well-armed Highlanders could lay waste to the lot of them before they even had a chance to unsling their muskets from their shoulders. Unfortunately, the only well-armed Highlanders left, Jacobite ones that was, were the ones defying the government’s disarming act, and they were several hundred miles away with better things to do than attack a group of inexperienced youths.
Beth sighed and stood on tiptoe, trying to see past her taller companions. This was probably the last time she would ever see her native land, but all she could see from where she stood was a jumble of brick-built buildings, which were probably warehouses to store all the provisions that were brought into and carried out of this rapidly expanding town. In the distance, towering above the other buildings was an elegant church spire.
To the other side, in the dock, was a forest of masts. She had never seen so many ships in one place. Maybe it was better to have such an uninspiring view, of a place she didn’t know. She was not sure she could have borne her last sight to be the heather-covered mountains of Scotland. At least she was not alone; all the women here, and a much larger number of men were bound for the same fate, and there was a strange sort of comfort in that.
Recognising that sentimentality would only weaken her, she reassessed the restricted view from a more practical point of view. Although there were enough people on the quayside to enable an escapee to rapidly mingle with the crowd, with her ankles and wrists fettered she had no chance of making a run for it. None of the other women were so encumbered, but they might as well have been; kept in filthy cells on inadequate rations for months, they had neither the strength nor, in most cases, the will to make an attempt at getting away.
Beth was fortunate, she knew that. Having been lodged at Caroline and Edwin’s for months, she had eaten well, and due to her self-imposed exercise regime was still strong and well-muscled. Following her interview with the Duke of Newcastle at which she had denounced her brother as a traitor, she had been returned to the Tower of London where she had been housed in relative comfort for two days, after which she’d been brought a plain woollen dress to put on, had been manacled, then put into a carriage.
At first she’d thought they were taking her back to Newgate Prison, but instead she’d been conveyed to Tilbury Dock, confined with a lot of other women in a tiny airless cabin on a ship and taken by sea to Liverpool, from where, if the other women were correct and if she was to share their fate, she was to be transported to an as yet unknown destination on the other side of the world. For life. The Colonies, probably. America, where her grandmother had been transported so many years before.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden movement. The militia men moved forward, pushing the women down a gangplank which led onto the ship where they were to spend the next few weeks of their lives. Waiting to meet them on board was some of the crew, dressed in breeches and shirts of varying sober colours, most of them stockingless and barefoot. They were headed by a tall, severe-looking man dressed in immaculate dark blue breeches and frock coat, with cream silk stockings and a gold-embroidered cream silk waistcoat. As the women congregated nervously on the scrubbed wooden boards of the deck, he introduced himself as Captain John Ricky.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said. “Welcome aboard the Veteran. This will be your home for the next several weeks until you disembark in Antigua, where you are to serve out your sentences as indentured servants.”
There was a low murmuring from the women. Antigua? Where was that? He raised a hand, and the women fell silent again.
“It is my aim to ensure that all of you survive the voyage. You will be fed half the rations that my men receive, as you will be resting and they will be working. I apologise that there is insufficient room on board for you to have separate quarters from the male prisoners, but I have ensured you have a little privacy for your ablutions. Do not take this as a licence for you to engage in wanton behaviour. I am a God-fearing man and will tolerate neither immorality nor insubordination. Do I make myself clear?”
Silence.
“Do I have to repeat myself?” he asked coldly.
Several of the women were looking at him blankly. Beth started to translate his speech for the benefit of those who spoke only Gaelic, but had uttered no more than a few words before he interrupted her.
“Wait,” he said. “What gibberish is that?”
Beth bristled, but kept her voice calm as she answered him. It would do no good to antagonise the captain of the ship before they had even left port.
“Many of the women do not speak English, Captain,” she said. “I was translating your words into Gaelic for them.”
He looked at her for a moment, then nodded curtly for her to continue. She spoke rapidly, and when she finished, the women nodded.
“They understand,” Beth said.
“You are English, madam,” Captain Ricky observed.
“Yes.”
“How is it then that you speak this…Gaelic?”
“I spent some time in Scotland, and learnt to spea
k it passably whilst there. I have a facility for languages,” she lied, hoping that would stop him asking for more details.
“Your name?” he asked, looking at a paper in his hand.
“Elizabeth Cunningham.”
He ran his finger quickly down the paper.
“It says here you are a seamstress, from Manchester. Is that right?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Mr Johnson,” he said, gesturing to the only other well-dressed man on deck.
“Yes, sir?” Mr Johnson said.
“Why is this prisoner in irons? None of the other women are. Is she a troublemaker?”
“I have no idea, sir. She was in irons when I took custody of her this morning.”
The captain turned back to Beth.
“Why are you fettered, madam?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Beth replied. Interesting. If he knew nothing of her background, she was not about to enlighten him. “Perhaps it was thought I might try to escape.”
“Do you intend to try to escape?” he asked. She looked around her. The gangplank had already been lifted.
“No, sir. I have no wish to drown,” she said.
He fixed her with a cold grey stare, which she returned with one of cornflower-blue innocence. After a few seconds he seemed satisfied that she had not intended impertinence.
“We have a blacksmith on board, do we not?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Johnson replied. “One of the prisoners, Low, I believe, is a smith.”
“Very well. Once everyone is settled in, you will bring him on deck and allow him to strike her irons. Her wrists are already raw. I would not have her die of infection unnecessarily. Which one of you is Elizabeth Clavering?”
Another woman, slightly taller than Beth, with light brown hair tied back with a cord, stepped forward and waited.
“It says here you are a seamstress as well,” Captain Ricky said.
“Aye, I am,” she replied.
“And a lady, it seems.”
“We are all ladies,” the young woman said coolly. He bestowed the same look on her as he had on Beth moments earlier. Elizabeth returned his look coldly.
“Do not quibble with me, madam,” the captain said. “Or I assure you, you will regret it. I have been told by your husband’s sister that you are to petition the king for mercy.”
“My husband was hanged at York, Captain, and it’s a little late to petition the Elector, even if I wished to do so,” she answered. Beth warmed to her immediately.
“Nevertheless, you will do so. And while on board my ship you will show respect for the king, madam, or I will teach you to.”
“I have always shown the deepest respect for the king, Captain,” she answered. “If you command me to petition for mercy, I will.”
“I do indeed. Conduct Mrs Clavering to my cabin, Mr Johnson, and take her statement. Take the others below,” he ordered.
They were conducted to a hatch in the deck, and had to climb down a wooden ladder into the hold, which was already crowded with the male prisoners who had been loaded on to the ship before the women. A piece of canvas material had been strung across one corner of the space, behind which was a bucket for the women to relieve themselves in and just enough space for the sixteen females to sit down. They would have to sleep in shifts if they wanted to lie flat, Beth thought.
The men had already settled in, if such a word could be applied to these Spartan conditions. The only furniture, as it were, was a number of buckets which would serve for toilet facilities and which had been moved to one corner and secured with a bit of rope to hopefully stop them spilling their contents when the ship set sail. Other than that there was nothing; no mattresses or blankets. The only light came from the hatch through which they’d just entered, and a few small air vents in the side of the ship.
In the grey gloom, Beth could make out a sea of sparsely dressed individuals, some in breeches and tattered shirts, some in the remains of the plaids they’d no doubt fought in, now ragged. All the men sported beards and long hair, having not had the chance to shave for some time. Some of them wore manacles as she did, although most were unencumbered. There was a low murmur of chatter as people introduced themselves to those who would be their companions through what promised to be a hellish voyage, the soft singsong Scottish cadences mingling with the flat northern English tones of those who had served in the Manchester Regiment.
After a short time Elizabeth Clavering clambered down the ladder, and Beth and Alexander Low, the blacksmith, were called up on deck. While he freed her with a hammer and chisel, Beth took the opportunity to try to obtain information from the crewman who stood guard over them, armed with a pistol.
“Have you been to Antigua before?” Beth asked conversationally. “What’s it like?”
“No, miss,” he said. “This is my first time. But Sam there has.”
Sam, hearing his name, wandered over. Soon they would start to move, and then the deck would be a hive of activity, but for now there was little to do, and chatting with a lovely woman was a pleasant way to pass the time.
“Antigua? It’s an island in the West Indies. Near the American Colonies,” he added, seeing her puzzled expression. “It’s beautiful, miss, and a lot warmer than here, that’s for sure! The sea’s blue, really blue, and there’s bananas that you can pick right off the trees! You ever tasted banana?”
“No,” Beth lied, knowing that if she admitted she had Sam would want to know how, and she had no wish to reveal anything at all about her background.
“It’s lovely, sweet, it is. I expect most of you’ll end up on sugar plantations though. They always need people there, being as the work’s so hard.” He eyed her speculatively. “Not you, though. I expect you’ll end up as a house servant, or maybe even mistress to one of them rich owners, eh, if you play your cards well?” He smiled lasciviously, and for the thousandth time Beth regretted her looks.
“How long will it take to get there?” she asked.
“Depends on the winds and the weather,” he said. “Six weeks maybe. Less if we’re really lucky, more if we’re not. Maybe you and I can keep each other company in the meantime.” He smiled again and Beth tensed.
The smith hit one final blow to Beth’s leg irons and they fell apart. He glared up at Sam, and the other sailor raised his pistol.
“If you’ve quite finished chatting,” the voice of Mr Johnson came from behind the group, causing the two crewmen to spring to attention. “Thank you, Mr Low. You can go below, and you two can get to work.”
Beth and Alexander climbed down the ladder, and the hatch was closed, plunging the prisoners into near-darkness. Beth felt her way over to the other women, most of whom she’d become acquainted with on the trip from London to Liverpool.
“Did you dictate your abject plea for mercy then?” she said as she sat down in the space they made for her. She rubbed her wrists gingerly. They were chafed, but not too badly.
Elizabeth Clavering laughed.
“I wrote it myself,” she said. “It’s probably no’ quite what the Elector’s used to seeing, but to hell with him. Even if it wasna too late, I’d sooner die than beg for mercy from that lump o’ shite.”
“Do ye think they’ll make ye write it again?” Effie Cameron asked.
“They can try, but I’ll no’ be doing it. I doubt they’ll bother. It’ll probably be thrown in the sea. Did ye find anything out?” she asked Beth.
“Antigua’s an island in the West Indies, somewhere near America, they grow bananas and sugar, and it’ll take about six weeks to get there. And sailor Sam would like to become acquainted with me, the fool.”
All the women laughed.
“You want to be careful, miss,” came a masculine voice from behind the curtain. “I’ve heard these sailors are none too clean. You might catch lice off him.”
The laughter became general. Everyone had lice; it was an accepted part of life in prison.
“I think lice’ll be the l
east o’ your worries, lassie,” another man commented.
“Lice’ll be the least of his worries, if he tries,” Beth said grimly.
“Did yer mother never tell ye that eavesdropping on ladies in their boudoir is ungentlemanly?” the fiery-haired Barbara Campbell asked primly.
“Begging your pardon, my lady.”
“What time do you think they’ll serve afternoon tea and cakes?” an English voice enquired.
“Will I ring the bell and ask?”
Beth laughed with the others and settled down to enjoy the banter. If everyone could keep their spirits up, the voyage might just be bearable.
Once the ship set sail, though, it quickly became apparent that darkness and lack of privacy were only a small part of the problems they would face in the weeks to come. Over the last year or so all of them had, to some extent, become accustomed to dirt, vermin, inadequate food and living in cramped conditions with people who they would perhaps not choose to share accommodations with in normal life. They had learned to tolerate the irritating mannerisms and habits of others, to hold their tempers when driven to anger, and to respect others when they withdrew into themselves in an attempt to find some emotional solitude in an environment where physical solitude was not possible.
Many of them had been on a ship before, but there was a huge difference between sailing round the coast of Britain from Scotland or London to Liverpool, and sailing across a storm-tossed open sea. A good quarter of them were seasick to some extent at the start of the voyage, and over half of them whenever the ship hit bad weather. At the beginning, until they found their sea-legs, almost everyone suffered.
When Beth had sailed from England to France with Alex masquerading as Sir Anthony, Angus, acting as Sir Anthony’s manservant had been felled by seasickness before the ship had even got out of sight of the coast. But he had, in the main, voided the contents of his stomach overboard, and had spent most of his time lying in a coil of rope on deck, green-faced and sweating, refusing to take to the cabin he shared with his brother for fear of rendering it uninhabitable.
Tides of Fortune (Jacobite Chronicles Book 6) Page 3