Standing Stones

by Beth Camp

  “Go on and ring the bell, miss,” one of the gardeners called.

  Moira rang the bell. A young woman wearing a lace cap and a lace apron opened the door as if she had been watching. Moira looked at her face. She has such pretty white skin. Her heart sank. I'll never be so clean again. “I've a note for Lady Thomas.”

  A look of displeasure crossed the woman's face. “Stay here. I'll take it to her.” She closed the door.

  Moira stood on the porch, shifting a little on her tired feet, and watched the gardeners work up one row and then the next.

  Inside, the maidservant skimmed the note as she went down the hall. “Lady Thomas,” she said as she entered the bedroom. “I have a note for you.”

  “Read it to me, Mary. You know I have one of my headaches.” Lady Thomas reclined on a side chair, a silk handkerchief dappled with perfume spread over her forehead, her eyes closed.

  “Yes, mum. It's from Mrs. MacKinnon at the Academy.” Mary cleared her throat. “Dear Lady Thomas, I know of your kind generosity in the parish and hope you will find a place in service for Moira MacInerney and her brother, newly come to Inverness. She is of good character, has a letter of reference, and can work in the kitchen or anywhere you wish. Her child is to be born . . . .” Mary stopped reading. “Mum, she has a child coming.”

  “You saw her, Mary. What do you think?”

  “She was quite dirty, mum.” Mary made a face. “MacInerney is an Irish name, isn't it? And she smelled of fish.”

  “Never mind that.” Lady Thomas stirred restlessly. “We can't take on any more staff. Take a shilling from my purse there. Give her that and tell her we don't have any work for her. I just can't do any more.”

  “Do you want to send an answer to Mrs. MacKinnon?”

  “Put the letter on the desk, Mary. I'll try to write something later.” Lady Thomas put her handkerchief back over her eyes.

  Mary stopped in the hallway. She slid the shilling into her pocket, smoothed her lace apron, and opened the back door. “Lady Thomas says we don't have anything for you.”

  “But Mrs. MacKinnon sent us.”

  “There's nothing here.” Mary studied Moira's dress. “Try the Ardkeen House.”

  Moira fought to keep her disappointment from showing. “The Ardkeen House?”

  “The house with the tower. It's on the turn to Culduthel Road. You passed it on the way here. You know where that is?”

  “Yes. I know the way,” said Moira.

  The door closed in her face with a final snap.

  CHAPTER 47: THE THAMES

  Mac braced himself against the side of the longboat packed with prisoners and prayed it would not sink. He was outside at last, not crammed in a cell, chained in a wagon, or stuffed in the hold of a ship.

  A low haze hung over the Thames; its vivid tints glinted in the afternoon sun. The river swarmed with steamships, barges and small boats. The stench of offal stung Mac's eyes. He stared at three prison ships moored bow to stern on the north shore, across from Woolwich. A fourth lay aground on a bank of muddy marsh.

  “You don’t want to go there, mate,” said the waterman, noting his glance. “That's the Justistia.”

  “Thanks.” Mac looked south at a cluster of buildings. “What’s that?”

  “People call that the Warren,” the man replied. Gray water beaded along his oars and ran into the boat. “If you’re lucky, you’ll be assigned to work in one of their warehouses or at the Arsenal.” He steered the small boat away from a steamer moving west from Woolwich to London Bridge.

  “What about over there?”

  “That’s a foundry and those are barracks, wood yards and workshops. All support the Arsenal.” The waterman spit in the Thames. “Downriver is where they dredge. Most likely you'll wind up there. 'Tis ten hours a day now. In the winter, you won’t have to work so long.”

  “I’ll not be here come winter.”

  “God willing, you might say.” The waterman laughed, a short bark. “Some have been here longer than that. God forgot them.”

  The small boat came alongside the Warrior, once a 74-gun ship of the line, purchased by the hulk authorities in 1840. Its massive frame listed slightly to one side. The Warrior was no longer seaworthy.

  Long practice led the watermen to tie up their boats to the side of the Warrior efficiently. Their longboats dipped and crowded together. The watermen shouted at the prisoners to climb up the rope ladders hanging down, over the side of the Warrior, on pain of taking a swim in the Thames.

  Amid shouts and taunts, the prisoners made their way onto the decks to be greeted by guards who shoved them along the deck. “Clothes off. Get moving.” Cuffing those who weren't fast enough, the guards herded the men into large tubs, where they were washed down with harsh yellow soap. Mac held back at the end of the line.

  “You there, off with your pants.”

  Mac tore at the side seam where he had hidden his coins. He couldn’t get the seam open.

  “What have we here?” cried one of the guards, coming over to Mac. “Are ye holding something back?”

  “Nothing, sir.” Mac ripped two sovereigns from his pants just in time and feigned a fit of coughing. “Nothing at all.” He held his hand over his mouth, and quickly palmed the two coins inside his cheek, continuing to cough as he held his pants out, smelly and dirty from two months in prison. “Just trying to get them off, sir.”

  “Don’t give me that worthless crap. Get to the tubs and wash yourself well. We don’t want no stinking pigs on our lovely ship.” He poked Mac in the ribs. “And a skinny pig at that.”

  Mac bristled. He followed the guard down the deck to the tubs. The soap stung his eyes and the sores on his body, but he was grateful to be clean.

  The wet and shivering men slowly moved along the deck where two guards handed out canvas shirts, pantaloons and shoes. “Not enough for everyone to have everything,” said one of the guards, his fat cheeks jiggling. “But you can get more if you work hard.”

  “We’re out of shirts.” The second guard shoved pantaloons and rough shoes at the prisoner in front of Mac. “We’re nearly out of shoes.” He pushed a ragged but clean pair of pants at Mac. “You look like a strong one. You get a pair of pants. Maybe you’ll get shoes after you prove yoursel’.”

  Mac guessed he was lucky to have the pants. Made of rough homespun, they were clean but threadbare.

  “Go on, now. Get your clothes on.” Another guard moved in, waving a thick stick. “No need of persuading, is there?” He shoved the man behind Mac to the deck and clubbed him. “Don't look at me cross-eyed, get it?”

  The prisoners shuffled quickly down the line.

  Mac shivered as he pulled his pants on. He could hear the clank of irons ahead of him. He knew what was next.

  “We got three types of irons here,” explained a wizened little man, his hairy eyebrows well salted with gray. “We got leg irons. Everyone gets those. We don't want no one to go swimming tonight. We got hand manacles for the rowdy ones. Only a few get the waist shackle.” He looked at Mac and squinted. “Looks like you’ll get two out of three. Put your hands up on the barrel.”

  Mac stood still as the little man’s hammer knocked the shackles into place.

  The prisoners were herded into a large room with wooden benches facing a podium, rather like a rough church. “Sit. This here’s our chapel.” The guards laughed.

  “Quiet,” called out one of the guards. “Lieutenant Evans's comin'.”

  The men sat on the narrow, rough-hewn benches, Mac among them. Mac rubbed his wrists, already tired of the weight of the shackles. He guessed the large room was once a mess hall. The men eyed each other, but nobody talked.

  A tall, heavyset man in full uniform, gold braid at his shoulders, ascended the podium. “Men, you've been assigned to the Warrior.” He scratched his neck casually, the lace falling away from his wrist. “Know this: Any attempt to escape will be punished by flogging and solitary confinement. A second attempt? Hanging. No trial.
No remedy.”

  “You are here to work.” Lieutenant Evans’ voice boomed out into the chapel. “Most of you will load or unload cargo at the docks. Some of you will muck out the canals. Some of you will bring ballast from upriver. If you have carpentry skills or such, speak to one of the guards. But you will all work. There will be no slackers from the Warrior.”

  Evans stared at the line of men looking up at him. “Aye, I see you’re in shackles now. And so you will stay. Work hard. Follow what the guards say, and you’ll not taste the cat. No fighting. No gambling. No stealing. No taking of someone else’s food.” Evans flicked his wrist at the guards. “Get them below.”

  “Stand up,” called one of the guards. Mac heard shackles clank all around him as the prisoners rose to their feet.

  “Fall in,” called another guard. The men followed him out of the chapel. One by one, they climbed down into the hold. The smell that met Mac made him gag. He could almost see a green haze. A prisoner behind him began to retch.

  The guard herded them down a narrow hall, past a barred door, and into a large open space with a low ceiling. No windows. No bunks. A few men lay rolled in blankets, while others sat, their backs against the sloping wall of the ship. One man lay sprawled in the middle of the room, naked.

  “Down here, you answer to them. And then you answer to us.” The guard dipped his head as he stepped outside the barred door and locked it. “Sleep well. We’ll be back at dawn.”

  Mac could barely stand erect. He stood with his back against the barred door and watched as a few prisoners approached them.

  “You got any food, anything tucked away?” asked a tall man with dirty blonde hair.

  “Anyone from Bristol?” asked another.

  The new prisoners huddled together.

  “Well, I’m Jack Doherty,” said the tall man. “And one thing you got is new clothes, so hand them over. We’ll have a little trade.”

  The new prisoners began to back up tight against the barred door. They pushed Mac to the front of the group.

  Jack stepped close, the stench of his body adding to the hot stench of the dark room. His eyes gleamed. His thin arms were covered with bruises and scars.

  “You’re not taking me pants,” said Mac. He braced his feet as well as he could and lifted his shackled hands in defense, the chain swinging.

  “Thinking to keep those fine pants, are you?”

  Jack kicked Mac and knocked his feet out from under him. Mac’s breath whooshed out as he hit the deck. He was naked within seconds. Jack held the clean pantaloons aloft and crowed.

  Mac clenched his mouth closed to keep his coins from spilling out. He grabbed Jack’s ankle and pulled savagely. Jack banged to the floor with a thump and rose on his hands and knees, glaring at Mac and ready to throw another punch.

  “Fight. Fight,” someone cried out.

  “No fighting,” shouted a man from the corner. “Leave the new ones alone, and give that man some pants.”

  Grudgingly, Jack threw a pair of dirty pants to Mac. He rubbed his hip. “Dinna worry, a new batch comes in next week. You’ll have a chance to get some clean ones then.”

  Mac grimaced and put the pants on. His forehead stung where it had hit the floor. Mac pushed his tongue against the coins in his cheek and wandered over to the man who’d stopped the fight. “Thank you.”

  “Call me O’Toole,” the man answered. “Been here long enough so they listen to me. Sometimes. It's just that all dogs go down on a strange dog.”

  O’Toole gestured for Mac to settle next to him, his back against the wall. “Sleep here tonight. You’ll be safer if you stay close by.”

  Mac eyed O’Toole’s double chains. “Thanks. I’m from the Orkneys.”

  “Ah, an Orkneyman. What led you here?”

  “Our landlord brought in sheep. I got up a protest. You know the rest. I'm to be transported to Van Diemen's Land. Sometime soon, I hope.”

  “The ships go out the end of summer, so you’ll be here awhile. That is, if you can stay out of trouble. You have a temper?”

  “'Tis likely how I came here.”

  O’Toole looked him over. “You’re strong enough, but you need clothes. Mel,” he called. “Bring me some shoes. And a shirt, if you can manage.”

  “Aye, sir.” A short man with gnarled hands and a twisted leg, hopped up. “Will these do?” He held a pair of shoes up, their soles rat-chewed and worn.

  “Better than none. Thank you,” said Mac.

  “Don’t ask where they came from,” said O’Toole. “You got a shirt?”

  The scrawny man stripped the shirt off his back and handed it over. “Take this, mate.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get another one tonight.” Mel snickered. “Just say I’m good at cards.”

  Mac put the shirt by his side.

  “Better put that on or you’ll lose it,” said O’Toole.

  Mac put the shirt on, still wet from Mel's body, and left it open in the front. He leaned back against the wall. “Does it get cooler?”

  “Not much. Tomorrow, stay close to Jack. He’s the one who took your pants. He digs ballast over by the Arsenal. That’ll be easier than working the docks.”

  “And you?” Mac asked.

  “They don’t let me out much just now,” said O’Toole. His arms clanked as he held up the blanket that covered his legs. Shriveled flesh and burns marked both legs. O'Toole picked a maggot off his leg and crushed it. “My job is to keep the rats away.” O’Toole’s mouth turned down. “I’ll be okay in another week or so.” He dribbled a little salt water from a bottle onto his legs. “Watch the guards. Better to be a coward than a corpse.”

  Mac nodded.

  “Don’t say much, do you.”

  Mac shook his head, wondering where he could put the coins he still held in his mouth.

  “Well, you’ll get some food in the morning. Try to eat apart from the others, or you’ll lose what little you get. They don’t give us much, and what they give us has got worms that wiggle in your belly. Scrape ‘em off, and you’ll be fine.”

  Mac looked at O’Toole.

  “You want to tell me?” O’Toole said. “I know you’ve got something in your mouth. Spit it out.”

  Mac shook his head.

  “You don’t have a choice, man. Spill it, or I call someone over.”

  Mac spit two sovereigns into his hand. “You’re not taking these without a fight.”

  “I’m not taking nothing. I’m offering you protection. You’re a dead man if the others find out you’re hiding those.” O’Toole adjusted the blanket on his legs with another clank. “Give them to me. I’ll charge you one coin and give the other back to you afore you leave.”

  “What’s to prevent you from keeping them outright?”

  “Do I look like I’m going somewhere?” O’Toole opened his hand. “You want to keep them, hand 'em over.”

  Mac looked around the room at the men sleeping on the floor. Their fetters clanked as they rolled over. The smell of vomit clung to his nose. “How do you stand this,” he asked as he handed the coins over.

  “One day at a time,” replied O’Toole. He lifted his lips in a toothy grin. “Better bend than break.”

  Mac eased against the wall near O’Toole. He could barely imagine the Orkneys, the Star, his brothers, or Moira. And Deidre. Her letter was long gone, but he yet knew every word. I will bend, he thought.

  At the end of the room farthest away from the barred door, a few men gathered around a candle. Mac could hear their whispers, Mel at the center, and the occasional curse mixed with the rattle of dice. He closed his eyes and slept.

  It was still dark when the guards entered the prisoners' lockup. “Get up, you scum.”

  The men lined up quickly, a few moaned on the floor. One lay on the floor, silent and still. Mac saw Mel cut into the front of the line. No one protested.

  When Mac’s turn came, the guard shoved two green pilot biscuits at him, one co
vered with thin oatmeal gruel, the other squirming with worms. Mac brushed them off.

  “Move on,” said the guard, not looking at him.

  “You there. Get this aboveboard.” Another guard pointed at the dead body. Two prisoners behind Mac seized the dead man by his feet and hands and carried him away; his fetters dragging on the pitted floor.

  Jack came over. “O’Toole told me to look after you. Just follow me. Don’t talk to me, and don’t mess with me. And get that crap down quickly afore someone takes it away from you.”

  “How did that man die?” Mac asked.

  “Gaol fever. Don’t worry. It‘s too soon for you to get it. Just stay away from the guards as much as you can. They’re always looking for bodies to sell to the dissectors.”

  Mac nodded.

  The guards herded the men up on the deck of the Warrior. Mac took deep breaths of the cold morning air, and he was grateful for Mel's shirt. Once separated into work gangs of about fifteen men each, the men climbed down rope ladders into the waiting longboats. If they lagged, the guards shouted at them and tapped their clubs on the deck.

  The boats spun away from the Warrior and headed in different directions on the Thames. As Mac’s boat passed the Arsenal, several gangs of men hauled rocks to repair the walls, while others drove posts into the ground to protect the riverbanks from erosion. About a mile below Woolwich, the waterman tied his boat up to a small landing. At low tide, the muddy banks swarmed with crawling, squirming red worms.

  “Blood worms,” someone muttered.

  “OK, everyone out,” called the guard.

  Mac grabbed his chains and heaved himself out of the boat, steadying himself as best he could once he was on land, his feet sinking into the mud. Ahead of him, a guard tapped his club against the legs of two men chained together to move them along a little faster.

  Mac followed the man in front of him, keeping an eye on Jack, as the guard handed out shovels. The rest of the morning, Mac dug dirt from the banks, filled wheelbarrows, and dragged them to a barge moored at the landing. A steady rhythm of work ensued, marked only by the curses of the guards as they walked along the line of workers.