by Jamie Carie
“Now where are my paints?” She was forever leaving things scattered about.
She turned, facing the bedroom she shared with her sister, a furrow between her brows. Mary Ann’s side of the room was, of course, as neat as a pin. Hers? She grimaced. She just couldn’t seem to put things back in their proper place, nor even imagine what that place might be.
She crouched down, flipped the quilt up onto the bed, and peered underneath. Ah! There was her pile of rolled-up canvas. Now, where were those paints? She hoped she hadn’t left them somewhere, some new spot she’d found in her roamings where she had painted last. Her mother would not be pleased to find her begging for more paint.
The door banged open. Mary Ann stood at the threshold, a little breathless. “Serena, come quick! Another ship has arrived.”
It took Serena a moment to comprehend that the time to paint was lost. She groaned, knowing she might not ever capture that colorful land in her imagination. A profound sense of loss touched her as she stared at the rolled-up canvas, aching for the feel of stretching it over a wood frame. But another part of her, one equally strong, wanted to help.
Serena stood, gave the canvas one last stare, and then turned to get her bonnet. “I am coming.”
It was time to go. Time to leave dreams and imaginings, and do what she could to help the indentured who traveled to America on a hope and a dream.
IT WAS EVENING. The gentle rocking in the hold mocked Drake’s inner turmoil. He lay curled on his side, squeezed onto the narrow confines of the cot where he spent much of his time. His arms were raised, wrapping around his head, covering his ears. His eyes were closed to the misery around him. The first few weeks of the journey proved just how stark reality had become. Seasickness was rampant. Vomit made a miserable mess of the hold, and the stench of it clung to the air, making it impossible to breathe deep. The fresh air of top deck was a distant, haunting memory. Once onto open sea, Drake had been shocked to realize that they were considered more cargo than passenger, rather like cattle than human. Basic needs and rights were now in the hands of a captain whose eyes glowed with fanatical greed. Drake knew the type—and knew the future would not be pretty for the lot of them.
Many of his fellow passengers were ill before leaving London. This combined with foul food and toilet habits added to their misery, leaving countless numbers unable to leave their cots.
Then, one by one, the dying had begun. Soon, the news came that twenty-seven people had perished. What had seemed a stunning death toll at first was now just another event in a wretchedness that left the living numb. Bodies were thrown overboard with little ceremony—those left alive hadn’t the strength or spirit for formalities. The worst had been a pregnant woman unable to deliver her baby. After she and the child died, the crew didn’t even bother carrying the heavy body to the deck. Instead, she was pushed through a porthole to her watery grave.
Drake curled inside himself, shunning the others in their close quarters. His fellow shipmates soon learned not to bother him unless they wanted a snarling return. He had honed the skill of verbal cuts and scornful glares long before, now it was as natural as his scowl. And as necessary.
He couldn’t let them see his fear.
Each evening, as dusk approached, Drake gritted his teeth and resisted the panic. The deep of night, the pitch black, when the creaking of the old ship ruled them—that was the worst. He was afraid to sleep; for when he lost the fight, the nightmares came. It wasn’t as if he’d never had a nightmare. As a boy he’d suffered them often, waking, sweat soaked, from skeletons of dead animals or fiery-eyed demons haunting him. Such nights he’d rear up, panting among his pile of blankets.
But those nightmares were nothing compared to what haunted his nights in this place.
The same and yet varied enough to never lose their terror’s strength, they had the ability to wake him and leave him lying like a corpse, stilled with fear. His father, fiendishly laughed at him from the grave. Or worse, the man he’d let fall haunted him, crying from a bloody pool on the stone terrace below. Once, it was his father killing him, and another time it was his father who had pushed the man over the railing. Always the images were ghastly and Drake felt, little by little, his sanity slip away with each one.
Sleep became a dreaded thing, darkness his enemy.
When awake, Drake’s mind traveled its own paths, paths his battered will could no longer resist. His memory revisited encounters he’d had with the man he’d always believed was his father. Now he doubted everything. The gossip about his mother haunted him. What he knew for certain was the hateful stares of Ivor, the contempt he’d never understood, the impotent rage underlying his actions, so incomprehensible to Drake. The questions still lingered, rearing heads that chipped away a little more and then more at Drake’s identity.
Had it been Ivor’s plan all along to dangle a true son’s inheritance and then rip it away when the truth of Drake’s lineage was revealed?
Weak, his father called him. Any show of emotion ridiculed. Any fear belittled. It hadn’t taken Drake long to learn the value of becoming a shadow in any setting, as still and quiet as a piece of furniture in the castle, a ghostly form during a hunt where he secretly abhorred the killing. A silent presence at an auction of horseflesh or valuable artifacts. He was expected to watch and soak in the play of power. And he had learned his lessons well.
Then, at twelve years of age, something changed. His father began grooming him as heir. It was right and expected and everyone around them breathed a sigh of relief. Life finally took on
a comforting though severe routine.
Looking back, Drake now wondered . . . Was it then that his father turned bitterness into revenge? It seemed obvious, looking back. Ivor had set upon his master plan—treat Drake as the son he’d always longed to be, waiting for the day, when he would snatch it all away.
The plotting gave his father new energy, excitement even. The subtle promises, the unequaled education, the single-minded building together of a financial empire to rival any king’s—it all lead to that fateful day when father would destroy son from the grave during the reading of the will.
Who was he now? His true father, if rumor was to be believed, was an unknown uncle. The man had left him and his mother to their fate, skulking away to Bristol. How could he have done such a vile thing? Had it been Drake, he would have taken his lover and son and left England, not slink away like a dog with its tail between its legs.
All he knew was that he hated him for it.
Suddenly a sound broke through Drake’s remembrance. Muffled sobbing reached him from several bunks down. The full moon lent a surreal light through the portholes, casting a ghostly gleam on the sleeping passengers. Sitting up, he searched for the sound’s source. His first inclination was to turn over and ignore it, but something about the shaking of the thin shoulders, the dark tousled hair reminded him of a long forgotten memory, and he found himself going to the cot and squatting down on the rough planks of the floor.
“What is the matter, boy? Are you hurt?”
A tear-streaked face of about nine rose up from a wadded blanket that served as pillow. “Who are you?” Resentment filled the response. “I don’t need nothin’ from you.”
Drake resisted the urge to get up and leave. Instead he sat down on the floor, settling in. “Well now, you may not, but I just woke up from a ghastly nightmare, and I was hoping you would tell me something to get my mind off it. Are you sure there is nothing you want to talk about?”
The boy sniffed and drug the sleeve of his arm across a runny, freckled nose. Propping his head on his hand he asked, “What was your nightmare about? I ’ave the same one all the time.”
“Oh yes? Tell me yours and I will tell you mine.”
The boy sat up, wrapping thin arms around bony upraised knees, looking half-scared and half-excited to have such a rapt audience. “The ship wrecks in a terrible storm, takes on water like the very devil and . . . people are drownin’ and I . .
. I’m tryin’ to save my mum. She’s drownin’ . . . going under the waves. They always grow bigger and bigger, but somehow I’m floatin’ above ’em. I–I always wake up and don’t know if I’ve saved her or not.” His voice caught but he quickly rallied, lifting that pointed chin. “Bet yours ain’t worse than that ’un.”
Drake smiled, feeling suddenly better than he had in weeks. “No, not worse, but equally bad. Mine involves a sea monster trying to drag me down to a cold, watery grave. Must be those beans we have been eating for our dinner. Did you have the dream tonight?”
The boy looked around and then whispered, “No, sir. I . . . I was just missin’ my mother. She stayed behind with my little brothers and my sister, Ella. Pap took me and Sean with ’im to get our start.” He paused and stared off into the distant moonlight. “I don’t know when I will see ’er again. Or if ever I will.” His voice became a whisper. “I’ll see ’er again someday, don’t ya think?”
“Of course you will. What is your name?”
“Danny Oliver. And yours, sir?”
“Drake—” Drake’s true name hesitated on his tongue, but he held it back. Giving the boy a small smile, he finished, “Drake Winslow. Good to meet such a fine young fellow. You know, I went away to boarding school when I was about your age.”
“Really sir? Can you read, then?” The lad’s eyes were shining now with something far better than tears.
“Certainly. Have you had no schooling?”
Danny shook his head. “I wish I could read, though. I would most like to write. My mum says my head is full of stories. I would write them down if I could.”
Drake thought back on his prized education at Eton, the private tutors he’d abhorred, something he’d taken very much for granted.
“What was boarding school like, sir?”
Everything from floggings to illicit excursions to Town flitted through Drake’s mind. “Well, I attended Eton. The first two years were the worst. The older boys initiate the younger ones, you know. But then, after a time, we grew up and we became the older ones, so it evens itself out. When I was twelve my father sent down a tutor who lived with me to help me with my studies. Aside from learning to read and write, we studied Latin and Greek, arithmetic, literature, English and French and, our favorite, of course, fencing.”
Danny’s eyes grew wide in admiration. “Are you very good with the sword, sir?”
A bark of rusty laughter escaped Drake’s throat. “Passably good, I’d say.”
“I should like to go to such a school.” Danny’s eyes held the faraway gleam of childhood dreams. “Pap says we will have our own land in America, a place where anything is possible. Do you think that’s true, Mr. Winslow?”
Drake looked into those eyes of hope and felt his spirits rise for the first time. “I hope so, Danny. I truly do hope so.”
A SCREAMING WIND rose into the pitch of night, tossing the vessel into deep troughs on the turbulent Atlantic, as if they floated on naught but a pile of matchsticks. Drake clung to his pallet and tried to block out the piteous cries and prayers of his terrified shipmates. They had been on board for eleven weeks and Drake was no longer thankful he had successfully made it out of London.
He heartily wished he was in Newgate Prison instead.
At least there he would be paying for his sin. Here, he just awaited death. Would he be the next to succumb? Eleven weeks of sickness, starvation, and raspy-throated thirst made the death toll climb. Fever, dysentery, and scurvy ran rampant. Drake often rubbed a thumb against his own gums feeling how swollen they had become. His ribs poked his skin when he inhaled, a peculiar feeling, leaving him lightheaded and woozy whenever he moved suddenly. What really frightened him, though, was his lack of strength. Getting off the cot and walking to the place designated for the men to relieve themselves now brought him to a point of excruciating panting and dizziness.
A sailor came down the rickety ladder bearing a tray of biscuits. He began to pass them out, greedy hands reaching for something Drake wouldn’t have conceived of eating months before. Now, his hand shook in equal anticipation. The rations, shrinking with each day, were putrid. The meat was full of worms, the water like sludge and full of worms, the biscuits infested with weevils. That men of power and wealth could treat the desolate so inhumanely was a shocking reality he now faced daily.
Life had become a horror he never dreamed existed.
As he crunched down into his biscuit Drake tried not to think about the fact that he had been one of those powerful and wealthy. Nay, not just one of them. He had been at the top of the powerful and wealthy. Princes from other countries acquiesced to him. And yes, he owned shares in the Virginia Company and the East India Company, profiting from the misery of such as these sharing this dank world with him now.
He laughed bitterly, rolling a weevil around in his mouth, toying with the choice of swallowing it or spitting it out. He finished his only meal for that day in seconds and then, turning to his side, curled into a ball on the lumpy cot. His head ached from all the tortuous thoughts. He imagined drowning and the silent rest that would come with death. Maybe he was going mad. It was a grasping feeling, like he was hanging by his fingertips from the window of a high-storied building—this no longer knowing who he was, no longer knowing his place in the world. He felt like an empty skin that still had to walk and talk and eat . . . but had no soul.
You’re worthless. No one wanted you and no one ever will. Just look at you. You are nothing.
Drake put his arms up over his head, covering his ears. He no longer had the strength to fight the voice that told him who he was. He could only curl up against it. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled, shaking the groaning vessel. The storm was taking a nasty turn.
Danny, several bunks away, called to Drake, fear in his tone. Drake turned toward him, desperate for a distraction. Danny had proved his salvation more than once on this hellish voyage. He saw the boy through the dim light. His thin frame draped in ragged clothes, hanging onto his cot, eyes wide. Drake’s stomach turned. Watching the children endure this suffering required a different kind of bearing up than he’d yet experienced. The numbers haunted them all—only twenty-one of the original forty children were still alive.
Drake held tight to the beds on the way to Danny’s cot as the ship jerked about anyone who tried to walk. Grasping the boy’s thin-boned hand, Drake squeezed, panting to catch his breath so he could shout above the gale. “Is this not a grand ride, Danny?”
“My stomach hurts and I think I’m going to throw up, but there isn’t anything in my stomach to come up.” Danny grinned at his own joke, the skeletal smile making Drake’s stomach twist harder. He remembered his breakfasts of coddled eggs and ham and toast, and how he’d thought it his due as a human, never mind as a duke. What he wouldn’t give to have that golden, butter-smeared toast to give to Danny right now.
How different he could have been! Drake’s chest heaved with the sorrow of it, but he rallied, became bright and encouraging, because he didn’t have anything else to give Danny but hope. “Well, in that case, it’s a good thing your stomach is empty. Now let us see if we can get your mind on something else. How is your reading lesson coming?”
Drake had written out the alphabet for Danny some days ago, helping the lad memorize them and the sounds they made.
“I’m up to letter p, sir.” He put his lips together, forcing air out, making the p sound. He stopped suddenly as a violent cough racked his emaciated body. Drake put a comforting hand on the boy’s back. When the spasm subsided, Danny blurted out, “Will you really give me a book once I ’ave it all down?”
Another dip rolled Danny into Drake, nearly knocking them both to the floor. “Of course. A gentleman always keeps his word.” Drake rushed the statement, seeing the boy’s eyes fill with terror as he righted them, settling the child back into his blankets.
Suddenly, a loud creaking sounded above them, which turned into a thunderous crash. Drake covered Danny’s body with his o
wn, waiting for the ceiling to cave in on them, the water to flood in. When it didn’t, he looked up to see a sailor coming down the steps, water pouring into the hold.
“You there! And any other able-bodied men! We need help!”
Drake patted Danny’s arm. “Hang on tight, Danny. We’re men of the sea now. We can overcome this.” The boy nodded, hero worship in his eyes as Drake turned from him and scrambled up to the deck, panic imbuing him with renewed strength. The ship had righted itself, but the damage to the main mast was massive. Every man available scrambled to the huge, wooden pole with its tattered sails flapping like wind-blown laundry. Drake shouldered his part of the load as they struggled to raise the beam. The wind tore at them and the weight, too much for their combined weakened state, knocked the beam out of their hands.
Again and again they tried to raise it, creaking and groaning, the men grunting and heaving, but finally, they gave up and laid it back down on the deck. They could only try again after the wind died down.
Drake’s dread grew. Without the main sail it was impossible to steer the ship, which now tossed upon the gray, foaming waves like some giant child’s toy. The thought of going off-track and losing time sobered them all. Rations were already slim; they couldn’t afford to lose their way.
Soaked to the bone and shivering violently, Drake abandoned the attempt and, with the other defeated men, stumbled back down into the cesspool of stench that was their home.
Nothing was left to them but to wrap sodden blankets around themselves and wait to see if, come morning, they were among the living.