by Brenda Novak
A pail of cinders at her feet indicated she had already swept out the inside.
Alexandra knelt next to her, overwhelmed by the myriad instructions Mrs. Wright had rattled off. She remembered well enough that the duke was someone to be feared, but she didn’t need the housekeeper to tell her that—she thought him dangerous already.
The morning meal was a brief affair of bread and milk, shared only with the other maids. They gathered around the large table in the kitchen shortly after eight o’clock and ate in silence, then scurried off to finish their work by noon.
The rest of the day revolved around work, work, and more work, interspersed with meals. Dinner lasted a mere twenty minutes, after which Alexandra spent the afternoon mending shirts and socks. Supper consisted of cold meat, bread, and cheese. Beer was served all around, and for the first time that day, Alexandra saw the other maids, fifteen of them total, talk and laugh.
At bedtime Alexandra visited Mrs. Wright’s room just off the large kitchen, as she had been told. It was after nine o’clock, but some emergency with Cook, over pan drippings no less, had kept the housekeeper late. When Mrs. Wright finally arrived, she sent Alexandra off to bed with the promise that they would talk the following evening.
Carrying a single tallow candle, Alexandra stumbled up the long flight of stairs to the attic. Fortunately, the girl with whom she shared a bed was already asleep and didn’t stir when Alexandra unpacked her box. She put her belongings in the two drawers allotted for her use in the chest next to the bed, and snuffed out the candle.
Six other girls shared the same small attic, but Alexandra gave them no mind. She slid into bed in her clothes and lay, tense and expectant and too preoccupied to worry about the lumps in the thin mattress or the chill of the unheated room.
For she was only biding her time, waiting until the entire house fell quiet.
Chapter 16
The boat jerked along as the oarsmen guided it toward a dozen mastless vessels sitting like huge ducks with heads buried in the shallow water. The hulks loomed before Nathaniel as he glanced wistfully back at the docks, envying the men who were busily engaged there, free to do as they wished.
A lavish carriage drew to a halt at the edge of the wharf, causing Nathaniel to clench his jaw. He had no doubt as to the owner of that conveyance. Though he could not make out the golden crest emblazoned on each door, he knew that the duke and Clifton had come to watch the final nail being driven into the coffin they had prepared for him.
“Is this yer first time in such a place?” asked another prisoner, a man with a black patch over one eye. Five convicts crowded the small boat, along with an armed guard and two oarsmen. The prisoners could overpower the three guards easily enough, Nathaniel knew, except they were double-ironed and unlikely to do anything to cause their own drowning.
When Nathaniel nodded, the stranger laughed. “If yer like most newcomers, ye’ll fall sick inside a year.”
Nathaniel was not impressed. He shrugged, but offered no retort.
“See this eye? I lost it in a fight aboard the Warrior. That’s ‘er, five hulls down. The fightin’ gets pretty rough.” He grinned. “A one-armed man would ‘ave reason ter fear.”
“Not if you were me.” Nathaniel gave him a scorching stare, refusing to be intimidated, and eventually the man turned to the prisoner on his other side.
“Ye ‘ave reason to fear, too. Ye look no older than a lad. Once it’s dark, the big men who’ve been around awhile prefer lads like you with fair ‘air and blue eyes.”
Nathaniel nearly laughed aloud at One-eye’s bully tactics, except that they weren’t funny. He was entering a whole new world, one less than a mile from the life he knew, yet oceans apart. No one escaped from the hulks, except through death. Whether that was because of the chains they wore, or the despair that weakened both mind and body, Nathaniel did not know.
He’d have to reserve his strength and be alert for any opportunity. Greystone and Clifton had not seen the last of him. Somehow he would survive.
Squinting up at the prison barges, Nathaniel grimaced. The place smelled worse than a common lodging house. The tide was out, leaving the hulks sitting in mud for ten hours out of every twenty-four. With the marshes nearby and a pond the tide reached only during winter, there was no flux to carry away the stagnant water. The smell of dead animals combined with the stench of the waste dumped off the ships to create a cesspool that reeked for miles around.
The ships were rotting, that much he could tell, but what really concerned him was that the prisoners inside them probably fared no better.
Swatting at a fly buzzing near his neck, Nathaniel watched one of the rowers jam his oar into the muddy water to steer the boat toward one of three large vessels clustered together.
The name Retribution was painted in faded red letters on the side of the first hull. Nathaniel knew the moment he saw it that he had arrived at his new home.
The men with the oars laid them down, and together with the guard, steadied a rope ladder that dangled before them. Then the shackled prisoners climbed slowly aboard.
The Retribution had originally been a thirty-two-gun ship captured from the Spanish, Nathaniel heard One-eye boast. But it was a hellish place now. Only splintered stubs remained where masts had towered into the sky. The wheel was gone, and the deck, once polished and clean, lay beneath grime at least an inch thick. Vermin droppings filled every nook and cranny, evidence that the prisoners had ample company.
Instinctively Nathaniel raised his eyes to the sky. Thick clouds covered the descending sun, but gold, purple, and magenta hues shimmered through. He was relieved to see horizon. That, at least, remained unchanged.
A man who referred to himself as the overseer, and another named Sampson, who held the designation of clerk, met the new prisoners. The overseer was obviously the man with supreme authority; Nathaniel soon learned he did not live on the ship, but came at sunrise and left at sunset each day. The clerk appeared to be a fellow prisoner who enjoyed a certain measure of power and greater freedom on the ship than his companions.
While the prisoners were temporarily unshackled, Sampson demanded they strip and bathe in a tub, which had been delivered by other convicts. By the time it was Nathaniel’s turn to step into the cold water, it was black from the grease and dirt of the previous four bathers. He desperately longed to scrub the grime from his body, but he could hardly force himself to step into the filthy water.
Except that he knew he had no choice.
Once Nathaniel had bathed, no matter how profitless the ritual, the clerk provided him with a coarse gray jacket and breeches. Fortunately, they were clean. Two other prisoners were given used garments that looked as though they hadn’t been washed since their last wearing. When one man dared to object, Sampson grabbed a pistol from the nearest guard and shoved it in his mouth.
“Dead men don’t know if their clothes are clean or dirty,” he warned. “Given a day or two, they’ll look no different anyhow.”
The glitter in the clerk’s eyes betrayed his eagerness to enforce his words. The prisoner pulled on the garments without another word while Nathaniel wondered who or what gave Sampson his power.
When leg irons were once again fastened about their ankles, the overseer spoke. “If you obey without question, work hard, and keep to yourselves, you will be left alone. Anyone who attempts to escape, or cause insurrection, will be eliminated immediately. Life here is just that simple.” Turning to Sampson, he added, “Have them join the others. I’ll be in my cabin. I’m starving.”
Though Nathaniel had expected the worst, he was still surprised by the appearance of the three hundred and fifty men who already lived aboard the Retribution. They were a lean, sickly lot, with scraggly beards itching with lice, and many wore only rags. Some had no shirt, shoes, or stockings.
They stood at attention for a brief ceremony, which consisted of Sampson reading the rules and the punishment affixed to each infraction. The rules were long and varied,
but the punishment was always the same: flogging, flogging, and more flogging. Then the prisoners filed below for their evening meal.
The dining room contained nothing but wooden tables and benches. No cleaner than the deck, it was dank and smelled strongly of mildew. Four portholes shed just enough light to lend a hazy glow to the room, much like smoke in a tavern. The lanterns that hung overhead cast dim circles on the floor that moved as the hull rocked.
With only ten tables, the men had to eat in shifts. The bulk of the prisoners were herded beyond the dining room into the sleeping areas. Nathaniel and the other new convicts were allowed to join the first shift.
Nathaniel was famished and more than eager to receive his meal—until he saw what it was. A detestable souplike substance called “smiggings,” it was made from boiled beef thickened with barley and was served in a tine bowl. The smell alone nauseated him. The others ate ravenously, but Nathaniel’s soup went untouched, and again he felt the clerk’s eyes upon him.
“If you got any brains, you’ll eat,” Sampson said, moving closer to Nathaniel from where he had stood along the periphery with the guards. “There’s nothing else coming till morning. As you can see, the others have figured it out. They’re bloody smart, eh?”
While Nathaniel was momentarily distracted from his rancid dinner, the prisoner next to him grabbed for his bowl and slurped up his soup, letting the juice dribble down his chin.
Watching him made Nathaniel’s skin crawl. He was locked up with animals, no longer of a sound state of mind.
Before his lump of bread could be stolen as well, he closed his mind to the taste of mold and forced himself to both chew and swallow. Sampson was right about one thing: he had to eat to keep up his strength, or he would end up no different than the rest of them.
From dark until ten, the men were left to pass the time as they would. Split between three decks and six wards, they were allowed free range only in their own small areas, and many loitered about, visiting or causing trouble.
Nathaniel stretched out on the hammock that had been assigned to him, struggling to block out the constant rattle of chains and hum of voices. What now? Had the duke captured Trenton and the Vengeance as well? Or was his first mate free to collect the guns and take them to the Lord High Admiral?
If only he knew. If only he could communicate with Trenton.
“My son.”
Nathaniel raised his eyes at the soft-spoken voice to see a chaplain standing above him.
“I am Reverend Hartman. I offer classes each night that might provide you with some solace. It would please me to have you join us. It could make the transition here easier for you.”
Shaking his head, Nathaniel almost rejected the invitation, then thought better of it. Here was someone who was neither prisoner nor guard. Clergymen were privy to a wealth of information, and it could only help him to understand how things were run in this strange new world—and by whom. Coming to his feet, Nathaniel said, “Anything is better than sitting here, Father.”
Pleased at recruiting another member to his flock, the Reverend Hartman led Nathaniel to a corner of the ward where a handful of men waited with open Bibles. Though most couldn’t read, the reverend performed that service aloud, and Nathaniel was glad he had joined the group if for no other reason than to enjoy the peace it provided against the bawdy songs and activities of the others.
When the chaplain finally closed his book and the group dissipated, Nathaniel took the opportunity to strike up a conversation with him. “I was hoping you could enlighten me on a few subjects.”
The chaplain started stacking the Bibles on a corner shelf. “Of course. What would you like to know?”
“The clerk is dressed like a prisoner, but he doesn’t act like one. Who is he?”
Reverend Hartman’s manner changed instantly. He glanced about before answering, “It’s best to steer clear of him. He’s a prisoner, but he works for the overseer.”
“Why is it he has no chains, and fares so much better than the rest of us?”
“He is a cruel and dangerous man. I suggest you stay well away.” The reverend changed the subject: “You don’t speak like a prisoner; I would guess you are an educated man.”
“Self-educated, mostly.”
“What did you do to arrive here?”
“I’m not sure what the final charge was.” Nathaniel shrugged off the question. He wasn’t here to talk about himself.
“I’d be curious to learn the details sometime,” the reverend answered. “But they’re setting the watch now. You’d better get back to your bunk.”
The watch consisted of several seasoned prisoners who sat up through the night with a light burning. They relieved each other every two hours and were supposed to ensure that no one spoke or moved about, but bribes and favors rendered the watch ineffective. And Nathaniel heard many suspicious moans and groans and other things that kept him on his guard, making sleep impossible.
* * *
Like some mythical dragon that snorts and shifts as it descends into a comfortable sleep, the Greystone residence took some time to settle in for the night. Alexandra waited, listening to the movements of those servants who still worked in the nether regions of the house, banking fires, polishing silver, or putting away the plate. Tomorrow morning would come all too soon, and with it her tiresome responsibilities as maid. She had to take advantage of every opportunity to seek information on Nathaniel.
As those around her snored softly, she climbed from her bed and tiptoed to the stairs, grateful when no one stirred, not even her bedmate. The stairs creaked as she made her way down though, and Alexandra was certain the racket could be heard all over the house. She feared Mrs. Wright would be waiting for her by the time she reached the bottom, but when she entered the kitchen, it was dark save for the moonlight streaming in at the windows.
The duke and his two children were out for the evening. Alexandra knew Lady Anne had gone to a dinner party somewhere—the other servants had mentioned it—but she had no idea what had called Lord Clifton and his father away, or when they’d come home. She only hoped it wouldn’t be now.
Heading through the green baize door that separated the servants’ domain from that of Greystone’s family, she checked to make sure the front of the house was equally quiet.
Evidently Lady Anne had already returned and retired, as no one waited up for her. Perhaps the duke and Lord Clifton had returned as well. A footman sat in a room off the entry playing solitaire, but Alexandra knew he’d be there all night, just as he was every night, to guard against thieves and the like.
The glow from the footman’s candle spilled out of the room he occupied, giving her just enough light to slip by without banging into anything.
As she started up the winding staircase, the plush carpet muffled her movements, allowing her to make quick progress. But when she reached the second floor, she had to travel more slowly. The darkness in the long halls on either side was now complete, and she feared she’d bump into a table or a what-not shelf and knock some priceless porcelain to the ground.
Greystone’s study overlooked the front gardens, but the heavy draperies blocked most of the moon’s light. As soon as Alexandra entered, she shut the door and began to fumble through the room, looking for a candleholder.
A moment later she found a lamp on the desk. Sulfur matches sat beside it in a cold, smooth container.
The match Alexandra struck flared with a blue light, then faded to yellow as she held it to the wick of the lamp before replacing the cover.
The duke’s study held a large mahogany desk, a high-backed leather chair, a card table, and several smaller chairs. A picture hung on the wall above the desk. A man astride a horse. Likely the duke in his younger years, Alexandra decided. She recognized the slight flare to his nostrils, the chiseled planes of his face. These features were very much like Nathaniel’s, but the resemblance ended there. Greystone’s eyes were more green than blue, and his hair was brown, not the ebony co
lor of his firstborn son’s.
Various documents cluttered the duke’s desk. Alexandra rounded it to stand between desk and chair as she dug through the pile, examining every item. Most of what she saw related to business: bills of lading, bills for household expenses, letters from associates or friends, a few legal documents—nothing that had any obvious connection to Nathaniel.
She sighed and glanced about the room again. How could she find out what had happened to him? There had to be some way, short of visiting every gaol and—Alexandra shivered—undertaker.
The sound of a cough coming from the hall outside made Alexandra freeze. Someone was coming. Quickly raising the glass of the lamp, she blew out the light. Her mind searched frantically for what she should do, but there was no time to do anything. The floor creaked and the doorknob turned as she ducked beneath the duke’s desk.
The light of a candle flame glowed in the darkness as footsteps crossed the room toward her.
Alexandra squeezed her eyes shut, praying she wouldn’t be discovered, and pressed back as far as she could against the smooth underside of her wooden haven.
The footsteps stopped on the other side of the desk. She heard the rattle of paper above her, then a loud belch.
“Damn cook.”
It was the duke. It had to be. Alexandra would have recognized Clifton’s voice immediately.
More rummaging, and a bit of cursing. Then Greystone seemed to discover whatever it was he was looking for and fell silent for a while, as though reading.
“Good,” he mumbled, grunting in satisfaction, and the steps and the light began to recede.
Alexandra held her breath until the duke was gone. She hadn’t realized she was shaking, but she could hardly stand as the acrid scent of Greystone’s candle lingered, covering the smell of her own lamp and reminding her of just how close she’d come to making herself his new target.