It was with huge relief a few hours after setting sail, that they heard the bolts pulled back, and the hatch lifted, allowing light and, more importantly, air to filter down to the hold. Baskets of food, consisting of slices of rough brown bread thinly smeared with butter, and chunks of hard cheese, were lowered, followed by pitchers of beer. Those not prostrate with sickness reached eagerly for the provisions.
“Make the most of the bread,” one of the sailors called down cheerfully. “There’ll be a lot of that at first, because the flour spoils after a while.”
“Can we come up for some air?” asked John Ostler, a Lincolnshire gentleman who, of all those on board, was the only one not listed as possessing a useful trade. “It is growing unbearable down here.”
“I’ve no orders for that. Only to give you rations, once we were at sea.”
“Will ye at least allow us tae empty the buckets, then, man?” asked James MacPherson. “It reeks dreadful down here. There’s a good many bodies sick wi’ the motion.”
There was a brief silence, then the hatch was lowered again.
“They canna leave us like this for six weeks,” Barbara Campbell said. “They wouldna gie us buckets if they didna intend us to empty them.”
Everyone waited. After what seemed like an interminable time, the hatch reopened.
“All the ladies, and only the ladies, may come up to empty the pails,” the captain said. “You will be allowed to do this twice a day, weather permitting. Any misbehaviour and the privilege will be curtailed.”
The women made their way up the ladder, and the pails were handed up to them to empty over the side. It wasn’t the pleasantest job in the world, but at least it would relieve conditions below, and allow them some fresh air. Once the buckets were emptied and passed back down, the women were allowed to stay on deck for a few minutes to stretch their legs, guarded by three sailors armed with swords and pistols. Beth stood by the rail, watching the ship cut through the waves. Above her the sails cracked and billowed in the wind, which also lifted her hair, now almost shoulder length. She inhaled deeply, savouring the fresh ozone scent of the air.
She had been there for no more than a minute before Sam sidled up behind her.
“What do you say then?” he asked.
“What do I say to what?” she replied.
“To us getting better acquainted. Beautiful girl like you doesn’t want to be stuck down there for weeks. We could come to some arrangement, like.”
“No thank you. I’m quite happy as I am,” she replied calmly, still looking out to sea. The boat was racing across the waves. The sooner we get there the better, she thought, then realised that the fate awaiting her at her destination was unlikely to be better than life on board ship, possibly a lot worse.
Sam had not taken the hint.
“Come on. I’m asking nicely. Not all the men would. There’s some who’ll take without asking, if you get my meaning,” he said.
She turned now and looked at him, her eyes cold and hard.
“Are there now?” she said. “Well, you tell them that if they do, they’d better enjoy it, because it’ll be the last time they ever swive a woman. Or a man, come to that.”
He reddened at the implication that sailors went in for buggery, although in fact many of them did, especially when there were no women available. Then he laughed.
“A little thing like you ought to be nice to me. I can protect you from those who’d hurt you,” he said, his hand patting the butt of the pistol thrust through his belt.
She looked away from him, out to sea again, made a decision.
“Do you want to know why I was in irons?” she said conversationally. “I killed a man.”
“You?” he answered disbelievingly. He looked her up and down. “I don’t believe you.”
“That’s up to you, but it’s true. A redcoat sergeant. I put a knife straight through his throat. He choked to death on his own blood,” she said with obvious relish.
“Don’t have no knife now, though, do you?” he said, but there was hesitation in his voice.
“You don’t need a knife to kill someone,” Beth replied, smiling. “There was a man, once, Ewen Cameron, his name was. He was fighting in a battle, I’m not sure which one. Anyway, this redcoat soldier got the better of him, disarmed him, and was on top of him, straddling him so he couldn’t free his arms. You know, like one of those men you’re wanting to protect me from might do?”
She turned to face him again, leaning her back against the rail. Some of the other crewmen were eyeing them; clearly if Sam was successful, the other women would be next to be propositioned. On the other side of the deck near the hatch, which had been closed again, presumably to stop the male prisoners attempting to come on deck, Mr Johnson, who Beth assumed from his dress to be second-in-command, was gazing upward at the rigging, directing the men with a series of hand gestures. Beth took this in at a glance, then focussed on the face of her would-be suitor. He was slightly puzzled, but clearly interested.
“What happened?” he asked when she didn’t speak immediately.
“Ewen leaned up, like this,” she said, bringing her face to within an inch of Sam’s, as though about to kiss him, “and then he tore the soldier’s throat out with his teeth.”
Sam’s eyes widened and instinctively he took a step backwards. Her eyes were pure ice, her mouth hard. He shivered involuntarily. He had no idea if the story was true or not, but her expression left him in no doubt that ravishing her would not be a happy experience.
“You tell that to your friends,” she said. “Tell them Highlanders are good at using whatever comes to hand, if need be.”
She walked round him and rejoined the other women, who were all looking at her curiously.
As soon as they were back in the hold, Barbara asked her what had happened. She told them, and they all laughed.
“Hopefully he’ll think twice before he asks any more of you for favours,” Beth said.
“How did you think up that one?” Elizabeth asked.
“She didna,” Flora, one of the three Cameron women on board, put in before Beth had chance to answer. “It’s true. All the Camerons ken it well. Ewen was Lochiel’s grandfaither. It was at the battle o’ Inverlochy it happened.”
“I couldn’t remember the battle,” Beth said, managing just in time to stop adding that it was the current Lochiel himself who had told her that story over a bottle of claret one night.
“I met Lochiel once,” one of the Manchester men said, “at Carlisle. He was a good-looking man.”
“No’ as good-looking as Prince Charlie, though,” Jane McIntosh said. There was a collective sigh from the women. “He spoke to me once, when we were in Edinburgh. He was awfu’ bonnie.”
Beth listened in silence as they all talked about the prince, wondering what they would say if she were to tell them that Charles, along with Angus had witnessed her wedding to Alex, and that Angus had won twenty scudi off the prince by drinking him under the table afterwards. Alex had looked so magnificent in his borrowed tartan finery.
It had been a wonderful night, one she had resolved she would treasure for the rest of her life. She could not have imagined the pain that memory would bring her now, knowing that she would never see Alex or Angus again.
She took in a deep shuddering breath and wiped away a tear, thankful for the darkness that hid her expression from the others, then concentrated all her mind on listening to the conversation taking place around her, in an attempt to push the memory to the recesses of her mind.
Over the next days, life settled into a routine. They knew when it went dark, because the tiny bit of light from the air vents disappeared. They left the vents open all the time, relishing the small amount of fresh air they admitted. If there was a heavy storm, they’d been told the vents would have to be closed, otherwise they could stay open.
As soon as it was dark, they tried to sleep. As there wasn’t enough room for everyone to lie down at the same time, half of t
hem would sleep lying down one night, whilst the others slept sitting as best they could. The following night they would swap. In the morning the hatch would be lifted and the women would go up to empty the buckets. After that breakfast would be served, which consisted of wooden bowls of thin oatmeal gruel, with maybe a small hard biscuit, edible only if soaked in the watery gruel.
At some point in the late afternoon the women would be allowed up to empty the buckets again, and then the second meal of the day was served; a piece of salt pork or beef and a bowl of pease, with maybe some bread or hard cheese, with beer and water served at each meal.
The rest of the time the prisoners passed in talking; there was nothing else to do.
Beth found out that although all her female companions were Scottish, a good number of the men were from northern England like herself, the majority in the Manchester Regiment, captured at the fall of Carlisle Castle and held in prison ever since.
They told her that all the officers had been executed, and she informed them of the good news that three of the officers had escaped from Newgate Prison and as far as she knew had not been recaptured. That cheered them up. They told her that in spite of the conditions on shipboard, they were the lucky ones because they’d survived this far, and some of them were still hopeful that there was more chance of escaping from Antigua than there was from prison, although the months of incarceration had rendered a lot of them, English and Scots alike, depressed and despairing. Which was hardly surprising, given the conditions they’d endured, and the future that beckoned.
Once it became apparent that the men were either too listless or too honourable to try to take advantage of them, the women abandoned their makeshift room, retiring behind the canvas curtain only to relieve themselves, although they still tended to keep together, especially at night.
Over the next week Beth got to know her female companions well, and grew close to two of them, close enough to tell them that she’d been married to one of the most wanted men in Britain, although she did not divulge any incriminating details. Even though they were hundreds of miles from home now, information could still be sent back, and she would say nothing that might risk any of the MacGregors.
Her first impression of Elizabeth Clavering as a strong independent woman was only reinforced once she got to know her better. She had been taken prisoner after the battle at Clifton Moor, where her husband had been fatally wounded.
“He tellt me to leave him,” she said, “and I should have heeded him, but I couldna bear to run away when he was still living. After he died, I tried to catch up wi’ the others but they’d moved too fast, and the redcoats caught up wi’ me. I broke one of the bastard’s noses before they took me, though,” she added with satisfaction.
She’d been held at York Castle, and because she was a ‘lady’ had received better treatment than the women Beth had been imprisoned with at Newgate.
“That’s where I met Edmund,” she said. “He was on his way south from Carlisle to join the prince, and decided to have a bit of fun, so he and his men broke into Lowther Hall while the viscount was away fighting wi’ Cumberland, I think. Anyway, they made the servants cook them a meal, but they stayed overlong and were captured. I admired his spirit, stupid though it was, and he admired the way I broke the redcoat’s nose. Anyway, we got close. I was still grieving for Dougal, and Edmund was kind. I didna love him though, and when he started talking about marrying, I said no, at first.”
By now she’d attracted a small group of listeners, all sympathetic, which encouraged her to carry on.
“Anyway, we drew lots, and I didna have to go to trial, which is why I’m here enjoying the Elector’s ‘mercy’,” she said sarcastically, “but Edmund knew he was going for trial, and that he’d suffer the traitor’s death. He didna seem to care at first. He provoked the guards every chance he got, even though I tellt him it wouldna do him any good. Then as time went on he got more and more low. He’d have these outbursts o’ temper, then sink into a mood where he wouldna talk to anyone. He said I was the only person who was keeping him from taking his own life. We knew well the trial was a formality – he was for the hangman, so in the end I agreed to marry him. I didna see the harm in it, and if I saved him from suicide and eternal damnation, so much the better. Father John, he was a priest in the prison with us and a Jacobite too, married us. That caused a stramash when the warder found out, I can tell ye, but give him his due, Father John said he’d a clear conscience, because he did it to ‘avoid us falling into sin’. That was the last thing I was thinking on, although Edmund said if he got me wi’ child they might release me.
“I’ve nae idea if they would have, but it didna happen anyway. We married in June, and he was hung in November. But at least I made his last months a wee bit happier, and I’ve nae doubt he’s with Our Lord now. He gave a braw speech at the end, as well,” she said sadly. “He was a good man, if a little touched in the heid.”
The other woman who Beth found an affinity with was about the same age as she was, plain-featured and with wavy black hair, and could not have been more different from the outspoken Elizabeth Clavering. Anne Cameron hardly spoke at all, keeping herself to herself much of the time and not joining in the spirited conversations that the others indulged in to while away the long hours.
It was when they were on deck one day, about ten days after they’d set sail, that she came over to Beth, who was standing at the rail looking out to sea, as was her custom. The sailors, who at first had maintained a close watch over the women, had now relaxed a little once it became apparent that they were neither going to attempt to storm the ship nor leap overboard en masse, and the female prisoners were left to wander about the deck freely, providing they kept clear of the tangles of ropes snaking along the deck, which were used to train and check the sails.
“It’s a fine day,” Anne said by way of introduction. It was. For the last few days the sky had been grey, and the day before they had not been allowed on deck due to the heavy rain which had fallen for most of the day. It was all the more of a relief to be able to breathe fresh air now.
“It is. It’s good to feel the sunshine on your face,” Beth answered.
“I feel bad for the men,” Anne said. “It’s no’ right that they have to stay below all the time.”
Beth didn’t need to answer this. All the women felt the same way. A lot of the men complained of headaches and sore throats, probably because of the foul air which the small air vents did little to allay, but in the last couple of days two of the men had contracted diarrhoea, which did nothing for the quality of the air and was more worrying, especially as they were now complaining of joint pains too.
“Are you feeling alright?” Beth said instead, sensing that Anne wished to talk about something, but didn’t know how to start. “You look sad,” she added, although that was her companion’s normal expression.
“Aye,” she replied. “I heard one of the sailors say that it’s the eighteenth of April. Meg died a year ago today. My daughter,” she explained in response to Beth’s questioning expression. “I was taken at Carlisle, and they let me keep her with me. She was only two months old then. I didna think the castle would fall to Cumberland so quickly. I thought we’d be safe. And then I thought maybe they’d let me go after a wee while, as I hadna done anything wrong except follow my husband. He made me stay at Carlisle, thought we’d be safer there than carrying on in the snow.”
“My husband did the opposite,” Beth said. “We’d had a fight and I was going to stay at Carlisle, but he told me it wasn’t safe, and made me carry on with him.”
“They were both wrong, then,” Anne commented.
Beth was about to add that, no, Alex had been right, because they’d reconciled and at least she’d spent more time with him, but then realised how tactless that would be.
“Do you know if he’s alive?” she asked instead.
Anne shook her head. “You?” she asked.
“No,” Beth replied. “But I’m s
ure he’s dead. He’d have found a way to let me know, if he was alive.”
They stood in silence for a minute. Above them men swarmed in the rigging, calling to one another, laughing.
“I’m sorry about your daughter,” Beth said finally.
“Aye, well. She didna have a chance, poor wee mite. Maybe it was for the best. I wouldna want her to have to go through this, and then die in Antigua, wherever that is. Or have been taken from me and brought up as someone’s servant, or worse, and never know her family. She’s at peace now, but I miss her every day.” She took in a deep breath, fighting not to cry.
“I found out I was with child, when I was in Newgate,” Beth said on impulse. “I didn’t know until one of the other women told me. I didn’t know the signs.”
“What…?” Anne began.
“I lost it,” Beth said with a tone of finality that stopped Anne asking any more questions. “It was better that way,” she added.
She’d told herself that for months now in an attempt to allay the guilt she’d felt at not telling Newcastle before he’d had her tortured, but standing here now, with the wind blowing her hair all over her face, she was certain that she’d done the right thing. No child of Alex’s belonged in prison or in a foundling hospital, to be branded as a Jacobite bastard if it had lived. At least it had died without suffering. That was the best she could have done for it, the only thing, given the circumstances. She’d always known that, but this was the first time she’d truly believed it.
She felt a great weight lift from her shoulders, and for a moment actually felt happy for the first time since she’d woken up after the miscarriage. She still yearned for death, but if it was not God’s will to take her yet, then she would accept that. There must be a reason why she was still alive, after coming so close to dying, twice.
Tides of Fortune Page 4