Shanna

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  The same fair, crisp weather graced the morning after. The chill wind whipped around the buildings as Ralston stepped from the landau and clutched his cloak tighter about his long frame. He rapped the handle of his quirt on the portal of the structure until a reply came from within.

  “I have business with the gaoler. Open up,” he commanded.

  After a brief rattle of keys, the iron door swung aside, and he went within. A guard led him through the halls until he was ushered before the turnkey.

  “Ah, Mister Hicks,” he began heartily. “I find I shall be returning to the island sooner than expected. I’ve come to see what good merchandise you have for me.”

  “But, gov’na—” the fat man came to his feet stuttering and wringing his stubby hands, “but, Mister Ralston, I’ve naught else but what ye’ve already chosen.”

  “Oh, come now, my good man.” Ralston laughed with little humor as he drew off his leather gloves, wrapped them carefully around the riding crop, then grasped the crop in his slim hand and slapped his leg. “You must have some good young debtors or even a thief or two who would see their paper redeemed for a chance to escape this hole. You know my master pays well with a goodly tithe for the men who serve him.” He poked Mister Hicks’s rolling belly with his whip and sniffed coyly. “ ‘Twould mean some more good coin for your purse.”

  “But, gov’na—” the gaoler grinned worriedly. “I swear ‘ere are none.”

  “Oh, come now!” Ralston snapped, his irritation showing. “That last bunch will scarce endure a year or two in the cane fields.” He slapped his narrow thigh impatiently with the crop. “You must have some new ones. And of course you understand that healthy women and older children are not without their worth in the Caribbean.” His thin-featured face frowned ominously. “My master will berate me heavily if I do not show him better than those for his money.”

  “But—gov’na!” Mister Hicks cried and sweated more, if that were possible. “ ‘Ere are simply—”

  A commotion outside the room interrupted, and the heavy door from the main gaol was pushed open. A guard thrust through, tugging at a long length of chain attached to a man who was weighted with as many iron links and shackles as he could carry. Another guard walked behind, also bearing a lengthy chain attached to the prisoner who showed recent signs of abuse. A swollen eyelid and a thick, bloody lip distorted his face. The short stride of his anklets caused him to stumble, and, for his clumsiness, he received a jabbing blow to the ribs. A grunt of pain issued from the bruised mouth but little else. The two guards were about to lead the prisoner through to the outside yard when Ralston, a fine judge of flesh, put out a hand to stop them.

  “Go no further!” His eyes gleamed at Hicks. “You clever swine, you. You’ve held out on me for a higher price.”

  Ralston moved closer to better survey the prisoner and after a moment turned sharply to the gaoler.

  “Let’s not dally, man. I need him. Get straight to the price. What are you asking?”

  “But, gov’na!” Poor Hicks was almost apoplectic. “I would na sell—I mean I can’t—‘E’s to the gallows on the morrow and right now bound to the common cell to join the others to be hanged.”

  Slapping the long, black riding crop Ralston stared at Hicks for a long time. Finally he paused and drew himself up, folding his arms. His shadowed eyes were like a hawk’s fixed on a plump rabbit.

  “Now, Hicks—”

  The fat man jumped with the sound of his voice.

  “I know you and some of the—ah—wonders you have worked in the past. A tidy sum for a young one like that, there is.”

  The gaoler trembled and seemed about to drop to his knees. “But—I can’t. The bloke’s a murderer, condemned to ‘ang, ’e is. Why, I must certify the very—and ‘ere’s ‘is name—” The words stuck in Hicks’s throat.

  “I care naught for his name. Let him be called by a new one.”

  At that, a sly look came into the gaoler’s eyes, and Ralston did not waste a moment.

  “Come, man, buck up.” His voice grew wheedling. “Use your head. Who’s to know? Why, it could mean as much as—,” he shrugged and almost whispered in Hicks’s ear, “why, two hundred pounds in your pocket, a tuppence for the guards here, and none the wiser.”

  Hicks’s greed began to gleam in his small eyes. “Aye,” he murmured softly, half to himself. “ ‘Ere’s even a body, an ol’ man what’s been here for years—forgotten—died in his cell las’ night. Why, it just might come off. Aye!”

  He leered at Ralston, speaking low where none would hear. “Two ‘undred pounds? For the likes o’ ‘im?”

  “Aye, man.” Ralston nodded. “He’s young and strong. ‘Twill only be a few days before we sail, but you must keep him hidden. Will there be kin to claim him?” At Hicks’s nod Ralston continued. “Then give them the other body tomorrow in a closed coffin with the magistrate’s seal upon it so they dare not open it. I’ll pick him up with the rest of the men the day before we sail.”

  Ralston marked Hicks with his penetrating stare.

  “I shall expect the man to be carefully handled to let the best of our bargain stand. Do you understand?”

  An energetic nod, setting the rolls around Hicks’ neck aquiver with an undulating motion, asserted the fact that he well understood.

  The business finished, Ralston made his way back to the landau, half smiling as he mentally tallied: two hundred to Hicks, and Trahern would go a good fifteen hundred for a man such as that, thirteen hundred for himself. He smirked in satisfaction and drew on his gloves. He began to hum a tuneless ditty as he leaned back in the seat and enjoyed the ride back to the townhouse.

  It was the twenty-fourth of November when Pitney made his way to Tyburn. He had little liking for a hanging, and he felt in dire need of something to fortify his wits. With this in mind he entered a dramshop and loudly called for a pitcher of ale to see him through. The hanging matches always drew a big crowd, and the tavern was alive with those who waited for them to begin. Choosing the only seat available, Pitney settled himself beside a small, wiry, red-haired Scotsman of an age about twoscore. The man was already well sodden with gin and gave him a lame smile. Pitney had not intended to indulge in words, but as the Scotsman was clearly sorrowed by some great tragedy, Pitney sat and mutely nodded while the other spilled out the tale of his life. Some moments later Pitney rose to his feet with a sudden oath and grabbing up his tricorn, left the establishment without further ado and charged off on his way to the gallows. The crowd was thick, and more than once Pitney came close to overturning a whole cluster of people who seemed inclined to bar his way. His elbows sent some flying, and he pushed near to where the guards were unloading the prisoners from the cart. He saw none he recognized as Ruark Beauchamp. One of the gaoler’s men passed, and Pitney grabbed the front of his coat, demanding:

  “Where is the colonial, Ruark Beauchamp? Was he not to hang today?”

  “Let go o’ me, ye bloody toad! Be off wit’ ye. I got business o’ me own.”

  With one thick, brawny hand, he snatched the guard close until the two men stared nose to nose.

  “Where is Ruark Beauchamp?” Pitney roared. “Or would ye be wantin’ yer head on backwards?”

  The guard’s eyes bugged, and he loudly gulped. “ ‘E’s dead, ’e is. They took him out in the van an’ ‘anged him at dawn, afore the crowds gathered.”

  Pitney shook the man until his teeth rattled. “Are you sure?”

  “Aye!” the guard croaked. “Hicks brought him back in a box. ‘E’s all sealed up fer ‘is kin. Let go!”

  Slowly the heavy hands loosened, and the man slithered to his feet in relief. Incensed, Pitney ground a white-knuckled fist into his beefy palm and snarled a curse. He spun on his heels and returned with the same rapid pace to the dramshop, flinging the door open with a thundering whack. His narrowed gray eyes carefully searched the room, but no sign of the Scotsman remained.

  It was a long ride back to Newgate, and Pitney e
njoyed it even less than he had earlier surmised. Receiving the same story of Ruark’s death from Hicks, he could do naught but accept the closed coffin with the name Ruark Beauchamp burned on its top. John Craddock helped him place the box into a horse-drawn cart, and Pitney journeyed to a small, deserted byre on the outskirts of London. There, securing the doors behind him, he began his work. He dragged a heavier, more ornate casket to the cart and placed it near the one from the prison.

  It was much later when Pitney tapped with a chisel, marring the threads of the bolts so the lid of the ornate casket might not be loosened without considerable effort. Its contents were well protected against whatever eyes might pry. As Pitney worked, a strange smile flitted across his face, coming and going like the fleeting flight of a miller moth around a candle.

  Taking the casket to a secluded churchyard, Pitney laid it beside an open grave and informed the rector of his delivery and of the burial on the morrow. Then he proceeded in all haste to bear the news to his mistress.

  Ralston was at the townhouse, and Shanna seemed impatient. Pitney felt himself growing awkward, not knowing how to tell her without Ralston overhearing.

  Finally Pitney stumbled out, “Yer husband—” he twisted his uicorn in his hands as Shanna gasped and stared at him with new attention—“yer husband—Mister Beauchamp—”

  Ralston’s brows lifted with interest.

  “ ‘Tis been taken care of, and the prior has set the time for two hours after midday on the morrow.”

  What began as a sigh of relief ended in tearful sobs as Shanna hid her face and fled. Mounting the stairs, she darted into her bedchamber and slammed the door behind her, closing out the world as she leaned against the portal. A dull ache knotted within her chest, and as she stared at her bed she almost wished it could have been different. Now her widow’s role was true. Sadly she regarded herself in the tall looking glass, waiting for a feeling of triumph, but strangely it never came.

  The Marguerite, like the daisy for which she was named, was small and somewhat plainly crafted. She was a Boston-built, two-masted brig, longer, lower, and slimmer than the English ships that shared the slip with her. The cargo that overflowed her hold was lashed down in every available spot. The weight of the cargo lowered the hull in the water until the brig’s main deck was only a pike’s length above the cobbled surface of the pier. Her captain, Jean Duprey, a short, stocky Frenchman, was as sudden of smile as of frown and flourished a quicksilver wit that made him likable to his crew. His years in service to Trahern numbered six, and if he had a fault it was that he had a great weakness for women. He knew every plank of the ship, every nook and cranny beneath the deck, and he saw every space fully laden with cargo. The Marguerite was small; but there was a well-scrubbed and newly painted look about her that spoke of loving care, and her canvas, though mended, was sound.

  This was the end of the trading season in the northern climes. Goods for Los Camellos left in the Trahern warehouse were to be divided between the Marguerite and a much larger, grander ship, the Hampstead, which would set sail in December. Odds and ends of cordage, pitch, and tar went to the smaller vessel, along with other much-needed everyday items. Of special interest were four long, slim barrels carefully crated and treated with much respect by the handlers. Captain Duprey himself made sure they were securely stowed in the main hold. Trahern had ordered cannons from a German gunsmith, and it was rumored they could shoot twice as far as any gun yet cast. The squire would be put out if harm came to them.

  The wan sun had lowered, and the day grew cold, bringing up vapors from the waters of the Thames. Final preparations for the following day’s sailing were being rushed, for soon the gray vapors would join and form into a dense hazardous fog that would end the labors. Shanna’s trunks were hoisted aboard, the larger ones going to the hold, while the smaller ones, containing those things necessary to meet her needs on the voyage, were placed in her cabin, recently vacated by the first officer and the mate. These accommodations proved scant; the cabin hardly provided room for Shanna and Hergus to move about at the same time. As the only women aboard they would share the tiny compartment. A sturdy iron bolt had been placed on the inside of the door by Pitney, limiting the prospect of unwelcome visitors. Any ideas the men might have had concerning the two women were quickly dispelled, for the servant hung his hammock on the deck near the passageway leading to their cabin. Though Pitney was not in sight now, both Shanna and Hergus had no doubt their safety aboard the vessel was guaranteed, if not by the knowledge of the justice that Trahern himself would mete out upon any who injured or seriously offended his daughter or her maid, then by the sure and certain fact that Pitney’s revenge would come far more swiftly.

  The fog had slowed much of the activity aboard, and a sense of impatience grew. Standing beside Hergus at the rail, Shanna felt the mood of the crew and captain as well, but laid it to her eagerness to be gone from London and homeward bound. Attending the burial of Ruark had been a highly distasteful task. It had proven difficult explaining to Ralston why the Beauchamp family was not in attendance, and finally she had insisted that it was her own wish for a private service, and, as she had naught but a few days left in England, the Beauchamps had conceded to her desire, granting the new bride that last privilege with her husband.

  It was Ralston whom they waited for now, Ralston and the bondsmen he had gone to collect. It had long been the agent’s practice to beat the alleyways and inns until the last possible moment for those who would accept bondage for a chance to be free of the squalor of London Common. In these times of relative peace there were hands aplenty to be had, though few of any worth. Some in the past had even been purchased from debtor’s prison, but the good workers were those who sought to better themselves. These were the ones the squire valued, and he had often voiced his objection to a man taken into bondage against his will and had sternly instructed Ralston along these lines. Yet there were new cane fields to harvest, and the urgency for more hands was acute.

  The last of the cargo had been stowed and hatches closed and secured against the morrow’s sailing. As the heavy mist drifted across the deck, the slight creaking of the ship and the slow lap of water against the pier seemed the only touch with reality. Lanterns on the dock below were pale islands in the surrounding blackness. Lights hanging on the bow of the ship ebbed and brightened like twinkling stars. Somewhere in the shreds of the mist, the laughter of a man mingled with a shrill feminine giggle, sounding eerie and strange in the stillness. But as the revelry faded, the silence closed in again like some tangible thing.

  Shivering with the chill that penetrated her woolen gown, Shanna snuggled deeper into the green velvet cloak, lifting a stray lock of hair off her neck and tucking it into the smoothly coiled knot at her nape before raising the hood to cover her head against the dampness.

  A rattle of wheels on the cobblestones sounded below, and Shanna, leaned over the rail as a wagon drew out of the thickening haze and halted near the ship. Ralston’s landau was close behind, but the two vehicles were only dark shadows in the fog. Shanna had to strain to recognize the thin, bony frame of her father’s agent as he directed the unloading of the bondsmen. Then the clanking of chains stabbed Shanna’s awareness, and she drew a sharp breath as she realized that the men were fettered hand and foot and to each other. Therein lay much of the difficulty, for the iron lengths were not long enough to allow just one man to descend alone. There were stumbles and falls as they filed out. Prodding by the several guards did not help the situation, nor did the hearty curses they applied with verve, warming Shanna’s ears considerably.

  “Why must he chain them?” Shanna snapped as Hergus leaned over the rail to have a look.

  “That I wouldna know, mum.”

  “Well, we’ll see if he has a good reason.”

  In rising temper Shanna descended the gangplank and strode toward Ralston, a growing desire to vent her rage urging her on as she sought his dark shape in the mist.

  “Mister Ralston!�
�� Her voice crackled with ire.

  The agent swung about quickly and, seeing Shanna approach, hurried to intercept her.

  “Madam,” he called. “Come no further. These are not the usual—”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Shanna demanded indignantly and slowed her pace only when he stood before her. “There can be little cause to treat good men like swine, Mister Ralston. Unchain them!”

  “But, madam, I cannot.”

  “Cannot!” Shanna repeated incredulously. She flung her arms akimbo beneath the enveloping cloak. “You forget your place, Mister Ralston! How dare you tell me nay!”

  “Madam,” he implored. “These men—”

  “Do not burden my ear with excuses,” she returned sharply. “If these men are to be of any use to my father, they cannot be beaten and bruised and worn raw with chains. The voyage will be hard enough on them.”

  The thin man half pleaded, half argued. “Madam, I cannot free them here on the dock. I have paid your father’s good money, and most would fly if given the chance. At least let me see them—”

  “Mister Ralston.” Shanna’s tone was firm yet bitingly calm. “I said release them. Now!”

  “But, Madam Beauchamp!”

  Suddenly one of the bondsmen nearby halted in midstride, and the others about him staggered as their chains slapped and jerked about their ankles. A loud shout bellowed from a guard who ran toward him.

  “ ‘Ere, ye bloody beggar! Get a move on now. Do ye think ye be takin’ a stroll through Covent Garden?”

  He raised his cudgel to clout the shackled man, catching Shanna’s eye. Angrily she whirled around, flinging the hood back to her shoulders, and the bondsman cowered away, covering his head with his arms as if more afraid of her than any club his tormentor would use.

  “You abuse my father’s property!” Shanna was aghast at the audacity of the escort. She stepped toward them as if to take action herself upon the stammering guard, but she found her arm seized in Ralston’s hand.