The Condemned (Echoes from the Past Book 6)

by Shapiro, Irina

  Simon was brought to stand next to Mary. His breathing was shallow, and he looked pale and sick. Mary turned to him, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. In truth, she didn’t blame Simon. Had he not accused John of coercing him, he’d have ended up swinging next to him. Mary briefly wondered what would happen to him once he was released from the stocks.

  Reverend Edison approached John and invited him to pray. John’s lips moved silently as beads of sweat appeared on his brow. He looked terrified, and Mary felt searing pity for him as his eyes darted from Governor Yeardley to Secretary Hunt. John probably still hoped for a reprieve, an eleventh-hour miracle, but it wouldn’t come. There wasn’t a single sympathetic face in the crowd. Everyone seemed to be waiting with bated breath, excited by the day’s entertainment. The noose was pushed over John’s neck and he blanched with fear.

  “John Forrester, do you have any last words?” Reverend Edison asked him.

  John stared out over the crowd until his gaze alighted on Mary. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he muttered. “I’m sorry for what I’ve brought you to.”

  Mary nodded. She couldn’t speak. Her throat felt swollen shut and her hands trembled with shock. She wanted to shut her eyes when the marshal gave the order to pull the rope but couldn’t look away. A cry of satisfaction went up from the crowd as John’s feet left the ground and he kicked his legs as the air to his lungs was cut off. His eyes bulged and a grotesque expression came over his face as he began to slowly suffocate. A stain appeared on the front of his breeches.

  “He’ll soil himself next,” someone said, his voice quivering with excitement. He was right.

  Had John had devoted friends, they might have pulled on his legs to break his neck and end his suffering, but no one came near him. His death throes went on for some time, but no one budged. Everyone stood by and watched, their eyes glued to the dying man.

  “Serves him right,” someone finally said once John’s body went limp.

  “It’s been some time since I’ve seen someone doing the Deadman’s jig,” another person said with a snigger. “This one took a while.” There was no sympathy in his voice, only satisfaction at having enjoyed a good show.

  Mary cried softly as the soldier gripped her arm. “Come,” he said.

  “Will they cut him down?” Mary asked.

  “Not likely. They’ll leave him to hang for a while. Always a good deterrent for anyone who’s planning on stepping out of line.”

  “That’s barbarous,” Mary replied.

  “So is buggering a man,” the soldier replied with feeling. “He got what was coming to him, and make no mistake.” He opened the door of the shed and pushed her inside.

  “Wait,” Faith cried as she ran toward the shed, a bundle in her arms. “Here. Take this, Mary.”

  “God bless you, Faith,” Mary said as she accepted the food and a blanket. “I won’t forget your kindness.”

  Once she was locked in, Mary wrapped herself in the blanket and sank to the ground. The shed was drafty and dark, the only light coming through the gaps between the boards, which also let in the cold. She fixed her gaze on a whorl in the wood, staring at it until her eyes watered. She simply couldn’t bear to think of what had taken place this day, nor could she allow herself to dwell on what would happen to her and her child. If she did, she’d go mad. Mary huddled against the wall, rested her head on her bent knees, and closed her eyes. Eventually, sleep overcame her.

  Chapter 63

  February 2015

  Ramstein-Miesenbach, Germany

  Quinn took a sip of tea and settled back in her chair. The dining room was empty except for her and Rhys, who was all packed and ready to go. After breakfast, Quinn would take him to Frankfurt and drop him off at the airport before going to visit Jo. She’d ordered only toast, but Rhys was about to tuck into his gargantuan breakfast. The smell of the sausages made her feel slightly ill.

  “You all right?” Rhys asked as he studied her across the table.

  “I couldn’t get to sleep last night. I kept going over my meeting with Jo, and worrying about today, so I thought spending a bit of time with Mary might help. I was wrong,” Quinn said hotly.

  “Tell me.”

  She quickly filled Rhys in on what she’d seen, from the attack on Mary to John’s execution. “It was awful, Rhys. It was as if I was right there, watching the breath being choked out of him.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you to be thrust into these situations. It must all feel frighteningly real.”

  “It does.”

  “Well, at least we now know how Mary came to be back in England,” he commented as he lifted a forkful of fluffy egg to his mouth.

  “None of this makes any sense,” Quinn protested.

  “How so?” Rhys was a television producer, not a historian. What he saw was good drama, but Quinn was disturbed by the irregularities that jumped out at her when she considered what she’d seen.

  “It’s historically accurate that John would have been executed for the crime of sodomy. I’m not questioning that. Simon got off awfully easy with only twelve hours in the stocks, but what puzzles me is the rest of it. The information Joanna Lang forwarded raises questions that I have no answers to.”

  “Like what?”

  “Joanna was able to find a record of John’s death. March eleventh, 1621. Dead by hanging. That checks out; however, she also found a deed to his plantation. After John’s death, the land passed to Simon Faraday.”

  “What?” Rhys asked, putting down his fork with undue force.

  “Exactly. Mary was John’s wife, and she was pregnant, with his heir, presumably. There wasn’t a shred of evidence, besides Travesty’s self-serving testimony, that Mary had been carrying on an affair or that her child wasn’t her husband’s. There was also nothing to indicate that she was in any way responsible for the deaths of the men who attacked her. The plantation should have gone to Mary, and in turn, her child. Instead, it had passed on to Simon Faraday within weeks of John’s death. Simon still had several years on his indenture contract, which should have reverted to the Virginia Company. Secretary Hunt, who was the representative of the company, would have sold the contract to another colonist. Instead, Simon was not only freed, but rewarded with a thriving plantation.”

  “You think Simon was up to something? Rhys asked.

  “He must have been, because this is clear proof that he had some powerful friends in that colony.”

  “Like who?” Rhys asked, taking a sip of coffee. “Did Simon ever leave the plantation?”

  “I couldn’t tell you,” Quinn replied. “I can only see what Mary did. What Simon did behind the scenes is a mystery to me. I would assume he wasn’t allowed to simply wander off.”

  “He was John’s lover. Perhaps he enjoyed greater freedom than other indentures.”

  “Perhaps, but where would he go?”

  “Into Jamestown.”

  “To have a glass of port with the governor or a game of dice with the marshal?” Quinn joked.

  “Anything is possible. We’ve learned that from your forays into the past. Besides, Travesty Brown was freed as well,” Rhys pointed out.

  “I think Travesty negotiated a deal with Hunt in exchange for her testimony, but I don’t see how Simon came to benefit so handsomely from the situation. Within a year of taking possession, Simon purchased two Negro slaves, which means he was doing very well for himself.”

  “There were Negro slaves in Virginia that early on?” Rhys asked, his interest piqued. This would add an unexpected angle to the episode.

  “The first Negro slaves were brought to Virginia in 1619. By 1620, there were almost three dozen Negros working the plantations. Given that there were about one thousand colonists who might have wished to purchase a slave, the fact that Simon was able to acquire two would indicate that he had the means and the connections.”

  “What about the Virginia Company? Did it not go under?”

  “It did, but not until 16
24. In 1621, the Virginia Company still governed the colony, which made Secretary Hunt as influential as the governor.”

  “Do you have any theories?” Rhys asked.

  “No. All I can say with any certainty is that Mary’s banishment was utterly unjust.”

  Rhys resumed eating, his gaze fixed on the gentle snowflakes falling outside the window as he chewed thoughtfully. “Do you think Mary was murdered?” he finally asked.

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  Rhys pushed away his plate and poured himself more coffee from the French press. “Whatever happened to Mary, the end is in sight.”

  Quinn nodded. She felt terribly sad for Mary and her baby, whose fate appeared to have been sealed the day Walker died. “Yes, I think Mary died mere weeks after Walker and John.”

  “Do you think Mary would have been happy with Walker had they managed to get away and make a life together?” Rhys asked. “It’s an angle I might wish to explore toward the end of the episode. As in, would Romeo and Juliet have actually made it work had they lived long enough to be together?”

  Quinn shook her head. “I don’t believe so. Virginia was only a year away from the Indian Massacre, which took place in March of 1622. The Powhatan wiped out a quarter of the colonist population. Some of Mary’s friends might have died, as well as their children. I can’t imagine that Mary wouldn’t have been affected by that or wouldn’t have felt as if she were living among the enemy.”

  “But she would no longer have been in Virginia at the time of the massacre,” Rhys pointed out.

  “No, probably not, and I don’t think the Croatoan were part of the Powhatan nation, but I can’t imagine she would have felt entirely at home among the natives, no matter how much she loved Walker or how welcoming his tribe was to her. She was an Englishwoman and a Christian, and that’s something that would always stand between her and her new life. I think a part of her would always long to be among her own kind.”

  “Yes, I agree with you. Well, let’s try to wrap this up quickly, then,” Rhys replied. “Mary’s story will make for an excellent season finale. And I have it on good authority that season three has already been approved. What say you, Dr. Allenby?” he asked, smiling at her across the table.

  “I say, ask me again in a few weeks.”

  “Come on, Quinn. I know you have a lot on your plate just now, but this is great news. Isn’t it?”

  Quinn was about to reply when a wave of nausea drove her from the table. She rushed to the nearest bathroom and made it just in time to avoid being sick all over the floor. She wiped her mouth and leaned against the wall. Her legs felt like jelly and she’d broken out in a cold sweat. Quinn’s hand went to her belly. “No,” she whispered. “Please, no.”

  Chapter 64

  March 1621

  Virginia Colony

  After the first few days, Mary lost track of time. She sat huddled in the corner of the shed, her arms around her knees, her gaze fixed on the opposite wall. It was cold, but she was grateful for the draft as it cleared away some of the foul air inside her prison. She hadn’t been provided with a bucket for her personal needs and was forced to use the corner of the shed. Once a day someone brought her food, but it was always the same: a cup of ale, a hunk of bread, and a wedge of cheese. She’d heard raised voices outside on what must have been a Sunday. Betsy had asked to see her, but hadn’t been granted permission. The soldier who brought her food had been kind enough to pass on Betsy’s parcel. She’d brought some sausage, fresh cornbread, and a clean shift.

  “Your friend was very persistent,” he said as he handed Mary the food. “She also asked me to tell you that Mistress Kirby had a girl and they’re both well.”

  “What did they name the baby?” Mary asked, her lethargy momentarily forgotten.

  “How should I know?”

  “She’s the first baby born in this colony,” Mary pointed out. The man shrugged. It made no difference to him.

  “Thank you,” Mary called after him as he left the shed. He didn’t respond.

  Mary tore into the sausage, desperate for something other than cheese. She could have easily eaten the whole thing in one sitting but forced herself to eat only about a quarter. She’d make the rest last for several days. Mary set aside the food and the shift. She’d beg the guard for some water to wash with next time he came. It made no sense to put a clean shift on a filthy body.

  Mary rested her head on her knees in despair. It could take weeks, or even months, for a ship to be ready to leave for England, and then what? What was she to do once she got back? She had no money, no possessions she could sell, and no one to turn to. She’d have to beg Uncle Swithin for mercy, but knowing his mean-spirited nature, she didn’t really expect any. He might take her in, but there’d be a price to pay, and she feared for the future of her child, especially if it displayed signs of being of mixed blood. Perhaps the Morelocks would take her in. They were kind people, but they barely had enough to sustain themselves. She’d thought she might receive at least a small portion of John’s assets, if not the plantation, but Secretary Hunt had made it clear that her right to the land was forfeit.

  In her solitude, Mary’s thoughts sometimes turned to John. She’d thought she might mourn him once the shock of his execution wore off, but the tears never fell. She regretted his death, but deep down, she felt no real sense of loss. John had made his choice and it had become his undoing—unlike Walker, who’d died defending her. Grief for Walker tormented her day and night, her heart squeezing painfully at the thought of never seeing him again or hearing his beloved voice. How unfair life was, how cruel. Their future had been snatched away from them, and snatched away from their baby. Never would it have a loving family or know the security and peace of life in Walker’s native village. Their baby would be born fatherless, sentenced to a life of penury, bound to a mother who was disinherited and disgraced.

  Mary closed her hand around the bone comb, making sure it was still there. She’d come to this land with nothing but this comb, and she’d leave it the same way. She’d survive. She had to, for her baby. Mary’s head snapped up when the door of the shed opened. It wasn’t time to eat, so maybe someone had come to see her. She was surprised to see Dr. Paulson. He gasped and covered his nose and mouth with his hand as the overwhelming stench hit him. He stepped back out of the shed but didn’t leave.

  “Come with me, Mistress Forrester,” he said.

  Mary got to her feet. She felt shaky and confused after days of being in near darkness, but the doctor took her by the arm and led her across the way to his surgery. He invited Mary to sit at the table and offered her a cup of ale and a bowl of fresh, hot stew. Mary tried to eat slowly, but the delicious food weakened her resolve. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Dr. Paulson was about to sit across from her but wrinkled his nose and moved to stand by the window instead.

  “Am I to go back to the shed?” Mary asked once she finished eating. “May I wash before I go?”

  The doctor smiled at her benignly. “Mary, I’ve had a word with the governor on your behalf. I see no reason you should remain locked up until such time as you can leave the colony. I am sure there’s nothing you could have done to sway your husband from his chosen course, and the accusations against you are insubstantial at best, made by a person who had much to gain from being believed. I’ve asked the governor to allow you to bide with me. I have a spare cot, and you can make yourself useful by looking after my needs. I’ve been relying on Mistress Marsh, but she has her hands full these days, what with her husband ill.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Paulson. That’s very kind of you.”

  “I will be leaving the colony with you, as it happens,” Dr. Paulson said.

  “Will you? Why is that, sir?”

  “I am to be married in the summer, and I don’t think my wife will care to live here permanently. I told her I’d give it six months and see how things stand, but truthfully, I think we’ll both be happier in England. A new physician will b
e coming out to replace me.”

  “I see,” Mary said. “Where will you settle with your wife?”

  “I’m originally from Dorset, so that’s where we’ll make our home.”

  Mary pushed away the empty bowl and got to her feet. “I’ll begin right away, sir.”

  Dr. Paulson shook his head. “There’s no need. Mistress Bass has started her pains, so I’ll be gone for several hours at least. With no competent midwife to attend the births, I’m afraid it falls to me to assist these poor women. Take the time to see to your own needs.”

  “Thank you, sir. Did you attend on Nell Kirby?”

  “I did, indeed. Your friend Betsy was there as well. Mistress Kirby had a fine, healthy girl. Adelaide is the name. Both Nell and Betsy had asked after you and begged me to speak on your behalf. They’re good friends to you, Mary.”

  “I know,” Mary replied tearfully. “I wish I could see them one last time.”

  “I’ll ask them to come by and see you after church on Sunday,” the doctor promised. “Now, I’ll be off.”

  Mary sprang to her feet as soon as the door closed behind Dr. Paulson. She poured some water into a basin, stripped off her filthy clothes, and unbraided her hair. The water was cold, and the soap was coarse, but she didn’t care. To have a full belly and be clean again were the extent of her desires at the moment. Dr. Paulson’s kindness brought tears to her eyes, more so because Walker had admired him. She sighed and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. All she could do at this stage was take life one day at a time, and today was a good day.

  Chapter 65

  February 2015

  Ramstein-Miesenbach, Germany

  Quinn strolled down the sunlit corridor toward Jo’s room. This was her third visit to the hospital, but already the place felt familiar. She nodded to the nurses she’d met on previous visits and returned Dr. Stein’s wave as the doctor disappeared into another patient’s room.