Love's Tender Fury Page 6

  I thought about Jack, objectively now. I was fond of him, and I would miss him, miss his robust male body and the sensations it summoned, but, in truth, I had merely used him. Like a prostitute I had traded my beauty, my body, for the comfort and protection he could give me. I wasn’t proud of that, but neither was I sorry. I was a woman alone. I had youth and beauty and intelligence, and I knew full well that I was going to have to use them again and again in time to come. They were the only weapons I had, and I fully recognized the power they gave me. There would be other men like Jack Reed, and each would be a stepping stone to … what? I was down now, I would be literally a slave to anyone who bought me, but I had a curious feeling that I wouldn’t be down for long.

  I heard one of the sailors high up on the mast give a loud, joyous cry—“Land! Land ahoy!”—and I leaned against the railing, peering at the shimmering violet-gray mists in the distance. For a moment or so I could see nothing, and then the mists seemed to part and I saw a mound of brown and green, barely visible, and I knew that it was America, the land of my future. My earlier apprehension vanished completely. I felt excitement stir within. It was a new land. I would have a new life there on that vast continent. There would be hardships, and I was already handicapped, but as the mists parted even more and the land loomed up out of the water like a huge, slumbering sea monster, I felt a distinct challenge.

  Life had dealt me many hard blows. I had been thrown out of my father’s home. I had been brutally raped by a dissolute aristocrat and framed for a crime I hadn’t committed. I had been subjected to incredible humilation that would have broken a weaker person … but that was all in the past. I had learned several valuable lessons about life, and I was eager to put them into practice. I might be coming to this country as a prisoner, a slave, the lowest of the low, yet it still seemed to beckon to me now, seemed to hold a promise of fulfillment and success.

  Always interested in the new world, I had read everything I could find about it over the years. I knew its size was staggering, the English colonies stretching up and down the seaboard and separated by huge areas of untamed wilderness filled with savage Indians and wild beasts. The French were there, as well, and the Spanish, and there were hundreds of thousands of miles to the west still unexplored. Of course, the Americans were little better than hooligans, rough, illiterate, crude despite the scattering of elegant cities they had hewn out of the wilderness. They were a wild, defiant breed, but they were ambitious, always striving, always reaching out. A young, determined woman would have great opportunities in a country like that, even if she did arrive as a common criminal.

  Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned, thinking perhaps Jack had returned. It wasn’t Jack. It was Angus Blackstone, one of the guards, a huge, hulking brute with short-clipped black hair and savage brown eyes. He wore sea boots, soiled tan breeches, and a rough leather jerkin over a coarse white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his forearms. He gripped a worn leather riding crop in his right hand. I had seen him use it on several of the women, beating them into submission, but I had also seen him cringe with fear and cowardice when Jack spoke to him. I stared at him defiantly.

  “Figured I’d find you ’ere,” he said. His voice was thick, guttural. “Thought maybe your fine sailor boy’d be with you, ’avin’ a last go-round ’fore we land.”

  “Jack has duties to attend to.”

  “So ’ave I, wench, so ’ave I. I gotta get you sluts ready to land. You come on with me an’ get your things together before we put th’ shackles back on ya. Don’t give me no argument, now. I ain’t laid a ’and on you, but I ’ave to confess I’m spoilin’ to. It’d do my ’eart good to give you a taste of my lash—”

  I moved past him with dignity, my chin held high. Blackstone made a grimace, but restrained himself, his fear of reprisal being greater than his desire to put me in my place. I went on down the dark, narrow stairway to the congested area lined with wooden bunks. The other women were stirring about, lethargically gathering up their belongings like lost souls preparing for hell. When we had first boarded the ship so many weeks ago, they had fought and scratched at each other like vicious caged animals. The contrast now was extraordinary.

  Angie was the exception. Like me, she had found a way to better conditions for herself during the journey, and she too looked healthier than she had at the beginning. Angie had the bunk next to mine, and she kept an eye on my things while I was with Jack, else they would have been stolen immediately.

  “’Ave a nice time, luv?” she inquired.

  I nodded. Angie made a face as Blackstone approached us.

  “’Urry it up, sluts,” he growled. “They’ll be comin’ to put th’ shackles back on any minute now.”

  “Piss off!” Angie hissed.

  “’Ere, you lookin’ for trouble?”

  “Don’t touch me, you bloody sod!”

  She glared at him fiercely, and although he made threatening noises, Blackstone backed away. Angie sighed as though he were merely a bothersome insect she had brushed away, then turned her attention back to me. Barely seventeen years old, Angie was small and thin with long, silky blond hair and enormous brown eyes. Pale golden-brown freckles were scattered lightly across her cheeks, and her full pink mouth curled down at the corners with disgust and resignation. Although she looked like a fragile, vulnerable child, that impression was highly misleading.

  Angie had been a prostitute since the age of twelve, living like an alley cat in squalid back streets of London, selling herself for pennies, stealing food in order to survive. Angie had been convicted of thievery just as I had, her crime snatching a handful of coins from a shopkeeper’s till. On our very first day on board she had picked out one of the three guards and played up to him shamelessly, and although she had had to service him regularly, patiently indulging his somewhat unusual whims, she had never been assaulted, nor had she ever been beaten. The guard had watched after her just as Jack watched after me. Tough, scrappy, Angie was a natural survivor.

  “Well, I guess it’s almost over,” she said. “God knows what’s gonna ’appen to us now. We’ll probably end up in some ’ore’ouse. There’re men who pick out women at th’ auctions, you know. They buy ’em, fatten ’em up, an’ then sell ’em to ’ouses. ’Appens all th’ time.”

  “It may not be that way, Angie. We—we both might be lucky.”

  “I ain’t countin’ on it,” she said grimly.

  “As soon as you’re put on the block you’ll probably be snatched up by some sturdy young farmer who’s been looking for a girl like you. You’ll have him wrapped around your little finger before a week goes by.”

  “Like ’ell—knowin’ my luck, I’ll be stuck out in th’ fields to pick cotton alongside th’ blacks. You, though, I ain’t worried about you. In a few years you’ll probably end up ownin’ ’alf th’ bloody country. If you ain’t scalped, that is.”

  “Scalped?”

  “Them Injuns—that’s what really worries me. Cliff Barnes ’as been tellin’ me all about ’em. They’re roamin’ all over th’ place, just pantin’ to get ’old of white women, an’ do you know what they do when they get one? Cliff told me all about it. ’E said—”

  “No doubt he was merely trying to frighten you.”

  “Bleedin’ sod—’im an’ ’is back-door ’abits. I’ll be glad to see th’ last of ’im, I can tell you for sure! Still, I guess ’e served ’is purpose.”

  “We’ve both been lucky,” I said.

  “We damned sure ’ave—just look at th’ rest of these cows. It’s been nice ’avin’ at least one friend on this stinkin’ tub. Christ! ’Ere comes Barnes, an’ ’e ’as that look in ’is eye. ’Ere’s your things, Marietta, safe an’ secure—”

  She cut herself short as Cliff Barnes joined us. Barnes had flat gray eyes and tawny gold hair that fell about his head in lank strands; he was a large, brutal man built along the same lines as Blackstone. Wrapping one huge hand around Angie’s arm, he pulled her to him. Sh
e sighed, wearing a bored, resigned expression.

  “We ’ave time for one more trick, luv,” he said, leering.

  “Yeah, sure.” She sighed again and let him lead her away.

  I began to rearrange my things in the shabby valise Angie had been guarding. We had been permitted to bring a few personal belongings with us, and before we departed, Millie, the maid, had risked the wrath of Lord Mallory to bring me some of the clothes I had left behind at the house. The girl had picked out the most elaborate, expensive gowns I had, garments that would be of little or no use to me in America. Once on board, I had traded them for more suitable things, exchanging one of them for a sewing kit, as well. Thanks to Jack, I had been able to have the new things laundered, and I had spent hours altering them to fit me. They were a motley collection, true, but they would serve me much better than silks or bronze taffeta.

  I had just closed the valise when the locksmith came down to put the shackles on us. The guards shouted commands, and I lined up with the other women to have the iron bracelets with chain suspended between them put on my wrists. Angie was the last in line, an aggravated expression on her face as she rubbed her backside. When my turn came, I patiently submitted to the locksmith. These shackles weren’t nearly so heavy nor so tight as those I had worn in the cell on Bow Street, and I was relieved to find our ankles weren’t to be shackled as well. All the same, it was humiliating, a pointed reminder that we were criminals, the lowest scum in the eyes of society.

  Properly shackled, we waited. Two hours passed, three, and we sat in silence in our bunks, even Angie’s ordinarily high spirits dampened. The air was fetid, the floors covered with filth. It was a wonder any of us had come through it all alive. Several of the women were deathly ill. All, with the exception of Angie and me, were pale, drawn, battered, hair hanging over faces in limp locks. Who would want to buy any of them? Two or three of them would certainly not recover from their illness, and none of the others looked capable of even the lightest work—much less like candidates for a brothel.

  I could tell from the motion of the ship that we were coming into the harbor. Sounds of great activity could be heard above. Finally there was a loud, scraping noise of wood against wood. The great ship rocked mightily, seemed to shudder all over, then grew still. Blackstone had gone up on deck to await orders, and the other two guards prowled about with menacing expressions, whips in hand. Two or three women were weeping silently. The others sat on their bunks sunk in lethargy. A huge brown rat scurried across the floor, but no one paid any attention to it. We had all grown accustomed to the rodents that thrived below deck. Angie gave an impatient sigh and reached up to run a hand through her blond hair. The chain suspended between her wrists clanked loudly.

  “You’d think th’ bleedin’ sods’d ’urry up an’ let us outta this ’ell ’ole! It’s ’ot as blue blazes down ’ere. ’Ey, Barnes,” she called, “When’re we gettin’ outta ’ere?”

  “Pipe down, slut!” he bellowed.

  “That’s gratitude for you,” she told me. “For weeks ’e’s been stickin’ it in me. Now that we’ve landed, I guess th’ romance is over. Oh, well,” she added, “what can a girl expect?”

  It was almost an hour before Blackstone returned. We were lined up and marched up the stairs and onto deck. After the dimness below, the sunlight seemed blinding. Across the railing I could see stacks of boxes and cargo piled up on the dock and, beyond that, a row of grayish-pink brick buildings with slate roofs. There was much activity on shore. The whole town, it seemed, had come to watch the felons disembark. Jack Reed was nowhere in sight. I was glad. We had said our goodbyes, and I didn’t want him to see me shackled like this.

  Angie was in line behind me. “I wonder where we are,” she said.

  “Jack said we’d be landing in Carolina,” I replied, “but I have no idea what the town is called.”

  “Oh gawd,” she whispered. “Look at them poor men—”

  I looked up to see six wagons with wooden cages built over them, the sort of vehicles used to transport wild animals in traveling circuses. Three of the wagons were already filled with the male prisoners. Stunned, apathetic, the men clung to the bars, oblivious to the catcalls from the crowd. A band of rowdy little boys poked at the men with sticks and hurled rocks at the cages. The crowd seemed to find this highly amusing, but the caged men had grown so accustomed to such abuse that they seemed hardly to notice. The other three wagons stood empty, waiting for us.

  Five men were standing at the foot of the gangplank. Four of them were husky chaps in sturdy boots, black breeches, and green and black jerseys, a sullen lot with stern features and belligerent eyes. Each of the four held a whip coiled in his hand and looked all too eager to put it to use. They were obviously our new guards. The fifth man was burly and broad-shouldered, roughly dressed in tan breeches, coarse white linen shirt, and leather jerkin. His eyes were flat and cold. Dirty brown hair fell across his tanned brow. His name, I was to learn, was Bradford Coleman, and he was to be in charge of us.

  Coleman scowled, watching us descend the gangplank.

  “Hurry it up, you lot!” he bellowed. “I ain’t got all day. Christ! Look at ’em! It’ll take me two weeks to get ’em in shape for the auction. All right, men, get ’em into the wagons! Any of ’em give you any trouble, you know what to do!”

  II

  I had no idea where we were. The settlement, for it couldn’t possibly be called a town, was a full day’s journey from the port where we had landed. We had been kept in a large stockade for two weeks, well fed and tended like cattle. A doctor had examined us, had prescribed medicine for those women still sickly, and now that the day of the auction had finally arrived, all of us looked considerably better than we had upon arrival. Early in the morning we had been given bars of soap and were led down to the river to bathe, then, back at the stockade, instructed to don our very best clothes and groom ourselves for the sale.

  A carnival atmosphere prevailed at the settlement. People had been arriving in wagons for the past three days, some of them coming hundreds of miles, and booths and striped tents had been set up. A noisy, festive crowd spilled over the area. Women in bonnets and calico dresses gossiped and sampled the food sold at the booths. Children ran wild, darting from booth to booth, shouting, fighting, unrestrained. Strapping men in rough clothes drank huge mugs of ale, argued with each other, examined the poultry and livestock, frequently engaged in rowdy bouts or fisticuffs. Angie was terrified when she saw the Indians wandering over the grounds, tall, sickly-looking creatures adorned with beads and feathers, but one of the guards assured her that these were “tame redskins.”

  The men had been auctioned off the day before. We were taken from the stockade and herded to a small, roped-off area behind the auction block. A number of people came to peer at us, but they didn’t jeer. They examined us with the same thoughtful, serious expressions they employed when looking over the cattle penned across the way and the horses that were for sale. Most of the women had regained their high spirits. Two weeks of hearty food and fresh air had worked wonders. Our shackles had long since been removed, but two guards with coiled whips hovered over us, as did Bradford Coleman, the stocky, leathery-faced former slave-runner who had been in charge of us since our arrival.

  Angie gave me a sharp nudge in the ribs, pointing to a husky lad with tousled brown hair who stood just beyond the rope. He wore brown boots, black breeches, and a coarse blue cotton shirt with full-gathered sleeves. With his merry brown eyes, broad, pleasant features, and wide grin he looked like an amiable young farmer, surely not more than twenty. I felt certain he smelled of the barnyard.

  “Look at ’im,” Angie whispered. “Ain’t ’e a dandy specimen? I do declare, I think ’e’s givin’ me th’ eye. ’E is! I wouldn’t mind bein’ bought by that ’un, I tell ya for sure. ’Ello, darlin’,” she called. “I ’ope you ’ave somethin’ else in your pocket ’sides that pistol.”

  The farmer grinned, delighted with her bawdy comm
ent. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out several gold coins, showing them to us.

  “Land sakes, Marietta, ’e’s rich, too! I ’ope you’re in a buyin’ mood, sweet’eart. I’m th’ best bargain you’re ever gonna find—”

  “Shut up, wench!” one of the guards warned.

  “Go snatch yourself,” Angie told him.

  The young farmer bellowed with laughter and sauntered off into the crowd. Angie looked elated, certain he was going to buy her. A large tent had been pitched at the end of the enclosure for us to use, and she hurried inside to take out her mirror and brush to do some last minute primping before the auction began. Their initial curiosity satisfied, several of the other women wandered inside, too, wanting to get out of the blazing sun. Only a few of us remained outside, including young Martha Roberts, a fifteen-year-old girl convicted of thievery.

  Pale and pretty with light-brown hair and haunted blue eyes, Martha had been ill throughout the sea voyage, a wraithlike creature who rarely spoke. The doctor who had examined us upon our arrival at the stockade had pronounced her pregnant, and the girl had dissolved into tears, confessing later on that she had shared a filthy room back in London with her older brother, that he had been having his way with her since she was twelve years old. The child would be his, and she would rather die than bear it. Coleman had had to keep her confined in a tiny log hut, heavily shackled, to prevent her from taking her own life.

  Unfettered now, standing in the blazing sunlight in front of the tent, Martha looked dazed, as though she had no idea where she was. Someone in the crowd fired a pistol. The girl jumped, terrified, and then she began to scream hysterically. Coleman and one of the guards rushed over to her and tried to quieten her. Martha struggled violently, still screaming, and finally Coleman drew back his fist and slammed it against her jaw. The girl stumbled backwards, almost falling. Coleman started to hit her again.