An Unwilling Spy

by Janis Linford

  A quick look of surprise flashed in his eyes. She thought he would say something about her boldness but instead he took in Johnson’s slumped figure with a look of disgust. ‘On your feet, man. Follow me to the crew’s quarters where I’ll see you’re given a hammock.’

  Johnson found his voice at last. ‘Never wanted to row that damn galley. Press ganged I was — and by her blooming man.’ He pointed his finger at her. ‘Now I’m cotched and no mistake.’

  Her mouth parted on a livid gasp. She’d risked everything for him and Johnson hadn’t even had the decency to thank her. On top of that, he’d told a lie that even now she must correct.

  ‘Daniel’s not my man, at least not yet, but he is a friend and I will not have you blackening his name.’ Although why she felt compelled to defend Daniel she wasn’t certain. He’d left Johnson to drown which was an abhorrent thing to do.

  Johnson croaked out a laugh and slowly stood on wobbly legs. ‘Some friend to leave yer out there alone.’

  ‘Daniel had the other men to think about,’ she reminded him, ‘and he knows I’m competent in a dinghy.’

  Johnson grunted. ‘That may be but it ain’t gonna make much difference now, ain’t it?’

  The truth of that made her shiver uncontrollably. Whatever Daniel had or hadn’t done, she had been the one at fault. She should never have gone smuggling.

  ‘Enough talk.’ Mr. Booth pulled a pistol from his jacket and pointed it at Johnson. ‘Get moving and don’t think to escape or I’ll lock you in the hold with the cargo and the rats.’

  Mr. Booth shoved Johnson out of the cabin and shut the door behind him. A key turned in the lock, the sound ominous and final. Mr. Booth did not trust her but what did he think she would do? Jump overboard and swim to shore? Or maybe she was doing him an injustice and he’d locked her in to protect her from a ship full of men. It didn’t matter. The outcome was the same. She’d been imprisoned like a common criminal in a room that smelt of brine.

  She dropped her head, her mind tortured. The gallows or prison —

  Her heart seized up and for a long agonized moment she could only stare at the floor. Papa, dear Papa. This was all for you —

  A picture of his face came to her and once again she heard his voice as his hand had squeezed her own.

  ‘I have faith in ye, Adeline.’

  He had trusted her and she had let him down, that last thing she had wanted to do. But if she gave in to her fears now she’d never see Papa again. She must keep her wits about her and take any opportunity to escape back to Fencarrow.

  She looked around the cabin, her heart pounding. She needed luck — and to stay alive.

  Chapter Four

  The Gallien sailed into Weymouth Bay on the kind of day she’d always enjoyed out on the reef. The sky, for as far as she could see out of the cabin window, bloomed pink and golden yellow, the colors bleeding gently into each another. It would be a fine day for some.

  She turned back into the cabin that had been her prison for the last forty-eight hours and clutched her stomach as another tidal spasm of hunger engulfed her. A ship’s officer had brought food only once a day. Just enough to make her aware of the growing ache in her belly but not enough to give her any strength for escape.

  Mr. Booth had kept his promise and provided her with dry clothing — a pair of patched trousers and a cotton shirt that smelled strongly of its previous owner. The trousers gave her a pleasing sense of freedom even though she must look indecent.

  A key rattled in the door and an officer entered with her old clothing in his arms. ‘Mr. Booth wants you to put these on. He’ll be here in five minutes, so make it quick.’

  He grinned boldly as he looked her trousered legs up and down but at her glare he threw the clothes at her and withdrew, locking the door behind him.

  She unraveled her clothing and stared at them in dismay. Her bodice and skirt were water-stained and her chemise sadly crushed with a faint gray tinge. Cautiously she lifted them to her nose and sniffed. A bit musty and salty but not too bad considering they’d probably been dried on the rigging.

  She changed quickly and it was as well she did for Mr. Booth appeared promptly. ‘Ready, Miss Perran?’

  ‘I am, sir.’ Although now the time had come she didn’t want to leave. The cabin had offered relative safety and outside waited a world she knew nothing about.

  ‘Give me your hands,’ Mr. Booth demanded, flexing a rope between his own.

  Something inside her snapped. ‘I will not be tied like a criminal.’

  ‘But that is what you are.’ He stepped closer. ‘A criminal of the worst kind. A person who would steal from those in distress and rob the King of tax.’

  ‘It was not like that at all.’ She glared into his eyes. ‘I’d hoped to sell the keg to pay the doctor for my father’s care. I do not think it a crime to help a man to live.’

  Mr. Booth blinked and for a moment she thought she had surprised him but then his face firmed into a steely mask. ‘Tell that to the magistrate but don’t expect any mercy. He’s heard every excuse and smugglers’ tale before. Now give me your hands.’

  She glanced at the rope that dangled from his fingers and her lip curled. ‘How do you expect me to climb down the nets with my hands tied?’

  ‘You will be carried down by one of the men.’

  His dark brown eyes locked onto her own with a harshness that dared her to argue. She held his gaze a moment longer, to show she wasn’t cowed, then held her hands towards him in bitter silence. He tied the rope around both wrists, binding her hands together. The coils of rope lay neatly side by side across her skin, the work of a man to whom neatness came as easily as command, but not so tightly that she couldn’t still wriggle her fingers.

  After he had finished she had to ask, ‘What of Mr. Johnson? Did he recover?’

  Mr. Booth eyed her with a frown and took out his pistol from his pocket. ‘He’s receiving attention in the local gaol. I would get used to the idea that you will never see him again.’

  A small whimper escaped her as Mr. Booth prodded her in the back with his pistol. ‘Move.’

  She marched out of the cabin and up to the top deck. The daylight dazzled her eyes and she drew in a breath of fresh air that cleared her head. It was wonderful to be outside and her senses sharpened.

  All around her men were busy, scrubbing the deck and seeing to the sails. They eyed her with interest as Mr. Booth motioned her over to the port side of the lugger. A man with arms the size of tree trunks lounged against the rail.

  ‘Easy down,’ Mr. Booth said to him, ‘and put her in the center.’

  The man nodded and in one swift motion grabbed her under the knees. A shriek fell from her lips as he hauled her over his shoulder and climbed over the railing. Down he scrambled, one hand and foot finding purchase at a time on the inch-thick ropes that covered the side of the ship. For dizzying seconds she hung in mid-air but his hands clasped her waist hard and in minutes she’d been placed in a longboat that took her to shore.

  The dock hummed with activity. Seamen unloaded confiscated barrels and customs officers in their navy jackets with gold braid gathered outside the customs house, deep in conversation. Loaded carts lumbered past and dogs ran around barking. Along the water’s edge, buildings clustered shoulder to shoulder. For as far as she could see there wasn’t a single tree. So different to Fencarrow.

  Mr. Booth walked her down a cobbled street that ran beside the customs house and round to the back where he ushered her into a small stone building that seemed to be the local lock-up. She expected to be handed over to the gaol keeper but instead Mr. Booth took her down a passageway studded with thick oak doors. He unlocked the last one and pushed it open.

  Inside, sitting on the floor of the tiny cell, was a man with his back to the wall. He was in his mid-to-late twenties and both his hands were shackled. The iron rings around his wrists were attached to three-foot chains mounted to strong studs in the wall behind him. His black leather boo
ts were badly scuffed and his high-collared jacket hung loose across his creased shirt. With unkempt black hair, scraggly beard and the pungent odor of his unwashed body, he looked to be a vagrant or worse.

  The man glanced at her, his charcoal eyes wary. Then he bent his head to pick the fingernails on his hand.

  Horror engulfed her and she took a step backwards, nearly colliding with Mr. Booth. ‘I’m to remain here … with him?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Mr. Booth said evenly. ‘There are never enough holding cells for all the prisoners waiting for the magistrate’s hearings. You will have to share but I will make an allowance for your sex and not restrain you. Give me your hands.’

  He produced a small knife from his jacket and slit the rope off her wrists. She sucked in a breath and rubbed her skin as she looked at the narrow cell. She couldn’t stay here with that horrid vagrant only feet away. ‘Sir, you have not considered my reputation.’

  Mr. Booth’s gaze raked over her as he bundled the rope and knife back into his pocket. ‘No well-bred lady would engage in smuggling. Your reputation, such as it is Miss Perran, has already been ruined.’

  He barely looked at the other prisoner and withdrew, bolting the door. In the following silence, his footsteps echoed down the passageway like a death knell.

  A scream rose in her throat. No … she couldn’t … positively couldn’t remain here. Her fists clenched and she had to fight an overwhelming urge to hurl herself against the door and demand to be let out. A useless action of course and she dared not show her fear in front of the man on the floor. He might be chained but he still looked dangerous enough to use any weakness to his advantage.

  She waited for him to say something, and when he didn’t even raise his head, she let out a small nervous breath and walked past him to the window.

  She had to stand on tip-toe to see out through the iron bars. Over an inch thick they were well and truly bedded into the window sill and would allow no escape.

  The view encompassed the rear of the Customs House and above it the morning sky. Sounds came from the inn next door and calls and whistles from people in the street filtered into the cell. Life was going on without her.

  She took a sip of water from a jug placed in the corner of the cell and turned to find the man’s eyes upon her. This time he openly stared, his gaze running up and down her body in quiet contemplation.

  She flushed and said with some asperity, ‘Good morning, sir.’

  After a long moment, when he still hadn’t said anything, she added, ‘My name is Adeline Perran. With whom do I have the pleasure of sharing this cell?’

  He scratched his chin and stretched out his legs with a grunt. They almost reached the opposite wall. ‘Name’s Finch.’

  She gave him her best smile and inclined her head. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Finch. That is —’ Oh, heavens, what did one say to a criminal? ‘Er…have you been here long?’

  ‘Three days.’

  ‘Are you in here for smuggling too?’

  He blew out a breath and turned his head away. ‘No.’

  She frowned at his abrupt response. If he didn’t want to talk she couldn’t force the issue but conversation would have helped pass the time.

  She stood for a long while in the corner near the water jug and watched the rising sun slant into the room, lending the roughly-hewn walls a warmth her body didn’t feel. She shifted from leg to leg and her stomach growled.

  If only the gaol keeper would return. She could eat ten mutton stews, even the gristly bits, and wished with all her heart that she could go home, tend to papa and eat some freshly baked bread spread with jam.

  Daniel must have told her family about her arrest by now. They would be worried but there wasn’t any chance they’d come for her. Apart from not wanting to leave Papa, Mama and Daniel didn’t have any means to travel such a long distance even if they knew where she’d been taken. And if by some miracle they managed to locate her, what could they do?

  A shaky sob welled up inside but she tamped it down and rubbed her aching hip, trying to ease the stiffness that had settled there.

  ‘For pity’s sake, sit down.’ Finch drew his legs close to his chest and motioned for her to sit across from him.

  The available space he’d created wasn’t large but it would be good to sit down. Her legs were trembling with fatigue. But could she trust him not to touch her?

  She assessed his lean face but he hid his emotions too well for her to read anything in it. If she wanted to rest she would have to take the risk.

  Easing warily to the ground, she tucked her skirt in tight around her, pleased to see that at least two feet of space still separated them. ‘Thank you.’

  At her fleeting smile, his cheek muscle twitched before he turned to face the window.

  Down at ground level and without the contrast between the light and shadow that marked the upper wall, his features were more discernible and he didn’t look as uncouth as she had first supposed.

  Under the mess of his hair, his even-colored skin looked healthy, as if he spent a greater portion of his time outdoors. He had a high forehead and his muscular frame looked strong and well-worked. His hands were rough and there were bruises on the knuckles.

  Perhaps he was a fisherman who plied his trade up and down the river or maybe a farmer who’d made good on the side. Then again he could be a murderer who’d slashed a man’s throat.

  She shivered and pressed further back against the wall. Whatever he’d done, he didn’t look too pleased she’d joined him.

  Her stomach growled and broke the uneasy silence. She blushed as he flicked her a glance. ‘Would you know if we get a meal soon?’

  He shrugged and loosely clasped his hands around his knees. ‘Food appears on a whim. Could be today, could be tomorrow. Hard to say.’

  It was the longest speech he’d made so far but it gave her little satisfaction. And food wasn’t her only concern. Her need to go to the privy had become a pressing problem.

  A chamber pot sat in a corner of the cell but surely she couldn’t be expected to use it in front of Finch. Mr. Booth must have forgotten her womanly requirements, if indeed he’d thought of them at all.

  She waited a few more minutes but things were becoming urgent. She scrambled up and knocked on the door.

  ‘Anyone there?’ she called.

  Silence. She banged louder. ‘Please, open up!’

  After another minute she squeezed her legs together and laid her head against the door. Perhaps she would just have to stand over the pot and pretend she was looking out the window. She choked out a laugh that bordered on a sob.

  ‘Try again,’ Finch said quietly. ‘Call for Sally. She can help you.’

  Adeline briefly closed her eyes. He was too watchful, too intuitive. But he probably knew how things worked around here. She straightened and thumped the door until her hand hurt.

  ‘Sally,’ she yelled. ‘I need help.’

  Footsteps sounded outside then a tiny slit window opened in the door. A servant girl with brown curls squashed under a mob cap pushed her red face forwards. ‘What’s the ruckus?’

  ‘I need to retire … to the privy,’ Adeline whispered.

  ‘Ye’ve a pot in the corner.’

  Her loud voice echoed around the cell and Adeline cringed. It was one thing to know Finch suspected her need and another to have it shouted to the world.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Adeline murmured softly, in the hope that she could influence the girl to quieten her voice, ‘but I’m sharing my cell with a man. I can’t be expected to use it in front of him.’

  Sally chewed on her lip and thought this over, then unlocked the door. ‘Two minutes yer’ve got but make it quick like. And don’t try nuthin’ cos there’s dogs in the yard.’

  Dogs? Adeline shuddered as the old scar on her right leg burned with the memory of sharp teeth and the stinging salve Mama had once applied to her skin.

  The servant girl pushed her further along the passageway t
o the last door on the left. It opened on a cupboard-like room that contained a half-full chamber pot.

  Adeline’s stomach churned at the smell but too desperate to quibble she hurried through her toilette, the hem of her skirt held to her nose. Once finished the girl ushered her down the hallway but Adeline halted. ‘Do you know if Mr. Johnson is all right? He was on the ship with me, and Mr. Booth said he was receiving attention here.’

  ‘’E’s dead.’

  Her eyes widened with shock. ‘Mr. Johnson’s dead?’

  ‘Have ye lost ye hearin’? E’s deader than a dead dog. Hung this mornin’.’

  She crumpled, tears aching in the back of her throat. Mr. Booth had misled her and in such a wicked, wicked way. Poor Johnson. Perhaps it would have been kinder if she’d let him drown.

  The servant girl hustled her back to the cell but Adeline’s mind kept sticking on one ghastly thought — would she be next?

  In the next hour a customs officer escorted Finch out of the cell. Where Finch went and what he did she didn’t know, for all he would say when he returned, was that he’d been taken for questioning. The authorities must have allowed him to use the privy however, because he didn’t make use of the chamber pot, a situation for which she was heartily grateful.

  He’d been shackled again and he winced as he rubbed his skin.

  ‘Are your wrists hurting?’ she asked.

  He glanced at her in surprise. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  ‘I could give you a strip of my chemise to lessen the —’

  ‘No.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Thank you.’

  She blinked and looked away towards the window. She had tried.

  A horse clip-clopped down the lane, its hooves striking the cobbles with a familiar sound that reminded her of Violet. There wouldn’t be anyone to exercise her now. There wouldn’t be anyone to cut the weed either. A catch caught in her throat and she tried to breathe …

  ‘Do you like horses?’

  His question caught her by surprise and she flicked him a glance. Finch must have been observing her even though he hadn’t appeared to be doing so.