2 In 1 Margaret Tanner [Savage Utopia & Stolen Birthright] Read online

  “I know. Men can be such animals, but we’ve survived. Don’t you see, it makes us strong. We can’t afford to be weak. Let’s make a pact.” They joined hands. “We will survive, no matter what.”

  They repeated the words twice over.

  Maryanne tried to sleep on the cold hard floor. It was horrible having to listen to hacking, consumptive coughs, and women fornicating in the darkness. Finally she slipped into an exhausted sleep.

  “Wake up, we’re leaving.” Libby shook her vigorously.

  “What!” She rubbed the sleep from her stinging, watery eyes. “Where to?”

  “The docks. This is it, Maryanne, we’re on our way to Sydney Town.”

  Maryanne struggled to her feet. “I’m filthy.”

  Libby laughed. “You’re not in the parsonage now.”

  They were ordered to wash in a trough filled with cold, black water. There was only one piece of coarse, hard soap, and Maryanne quickly washed her hair and body. Fortunately, they were amongst the first, thanks to Libby elbowing and pushing them to the front.

  They gave her a drab, brownish/grey gown, made from canvas in the prison sewing shop.

  “Keep your other gown,” Libby instructed. “It is good quality. Might be handy later on if you get a chance to wash it.”

  How humiliating having to lift up her skirt and expose her bare ankles and legs so a ferret-faced turnkey could clamp fetters around her ankles. His vile comments made her cringe inwardly, but Libby’s silent warning forced her to stand still and endure the indignity without complaint. Finally, they were loaded into an open wagon in groups of ten, chained together like rabid dogs.

  Once outside the grim prison walls, Maryanne breathed in deeply. Although the cold air, like an obscene cloud permeated with the filth of the slums, enveloped them; it smelled fresher than the damp rotting despair of Newgate prison.

  “Libby, I never thought I’d miss a grey English sky,” she said, running her fingers through her tangled, pale gold curls.

  As the wagon clattered along dingy, cobbled streets bereft of any sunlight, they were subjected to the curious stares of passersby, and the crude obscenities of gutter children. Glancing around, Maryanne realised most of the convicts appeared young; obviously the old and diseased had been purposely left behind. Only those able to work in the colony were wanted.

  “Will you be sorry to leave England, Libby?” Maryanne heard a young guard ask.

  “No.” In the daylight, Libby’s skin carried the sickly prison pallor, but her flaming red hair shone brightly.

  Libby manoeuvered herself so her back blocked off what she did from the others, and Maryanne watched in shocked disbelief, as Libby’s hand slipped inside the soldier’s trousers. She averted her eyes hurriedly, staring straight ahead, trying to ignore the man’s gasps and groans, and the vulgar ditties sung by one of the other women.

  I’m going to live. I’m going to survive this depravity. I am, Maryanne vowed. She clenched her hands together until the wooden side of the wagon lacerated her skin. Her legs started aching from the weight of the irons, and already she felt as if the skin on her ankles had been rubbed raw.

  Fear of that unknown land, thousands of miles across the sea almost engulfed her, but she forced the tears burning at the back of her eyes not to fall. Some of the women started wailing and sobbing as the dock area came into view, others cursed virulently. Several ships with tall masts, some fully rigged for sailing, bobbed and rocked on the water.

  “All right, harlots.” Their chains were removed, but the fetters remained in place, heavy and restrictive. The constable in charge poked and prodded them out of the wagon and on to the wharf. Maryanne struggled along with a grinning Libby just behind her.

  “Doesn’t look much, Maryanne.”

  She tried to edge away from the Irish girl.

  “Don’t go all pious on me. Soldier boy paid well.” She jingled some coins together.

  “But, Libby.”

  “I want to live, I told you that. I’ll do anything to stay alive, and without coin for barter we’re as good as dead. There are about three hundred convicts, most of them men. Some have been waiting here for months. Officers will have first pick of us, soldiers next, any leftovers go to the sailors.”

  “Oh, Libby, no.”

  A prod in the back from the constable’s gun butt almost sent Maryanne sprawling. It was impossible to walk properly in the irons so she shuffled along, taking small steps at a time.

  The ancient ship, with age-blackened woodwork, didn’t look big enough to transport hundreds of people to the far side of the world.

  “Ah, Miss Uppity.” She ignored the constable’s rapacious leer by staring straight ahead. “Once the crew gets you on your back, you won’t be so high and mighty.”

  As they shuffled up the gangplank in single file, Maryanne stared fearfully at the rough sailors. They passed a line of male convicts loading stores. Heavily fettered, the men moved awkwardly lifting barrels and casks, passing the supplies from one to another, while a huge ape of a man yelled at them to work faster. He wore the grey garb of a convict also, probably a trustee put in charge of his fellow prisoners.

  She didn’t know why, but some force beyond her control caused her to glance upwards, and a man’s moss green eyes bored into her. Only an instant in time, yet for a split second, they were the only two people left in the world. Her heartbeat escalated and suddenly, inexplicably, her whole body became infused with warmth.

  His hair, a mass of unruly curls, was coal black, his face, where a beard did not cover it, was tanned to a mahogany colour. He looked tall, long limbed and graceful, with an arrogant pride even prison garb could not hide.

  “Maryanne,” Libby screamed as a tea chest hurtled towards her. She couldn’t move. Fear paralysed her. Callused male hands suddenly dragged her to safety, and the box crashed to the deck, missing her by mere inches.

  “Maryanne,” the dark man said. She trembled with shock and something else she did not understand, as his grip tightened on her waist. “A close thing, my lovely.” The words, soft as a snowflake, gently caressed her skin.

  “Thank you.” His eyes, twin flames of green, scorched through the coarse roughness of her gown until her whole body felt as if it had self-combusted.

  “Get back to work, scum.” The ape-man lashed out with a booted foot, and Maryanne heard the crunch as it connected with bone.

  The dark man made no sound. His thick lashes fanned down over his eyes, but not before she saw them smouldering with hatred.

  “What’s your name, me darlin’?” She heard Libby ask him in an exaggerated Irish brogue.

  “Jake Smith.”

  “I’ll be seeing you again, Maryanne,” he promised in a soft, alien drawl. Hot colour burned her cheeks as she stumbled away.

  “He’s an American.” Libby volunteered the information.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve met them before, he wants to bed you”

  “How can you tell?”

  Laughing, Libby tossed her head. “Nothing I don’t know about men.”

  “Line up, harlots,” the chief constable, a crude beefy-looking man ordered. “Captain wants to talk to youse.”

  The spring sun glided out from behind some banked up cloud as they waited for the Captain to appear. Several officers strolled up. None spoke, but they inspected the female prisoners carefully.

  “Picking their women,” Libby hissed. “Bastards.” She smiled invitingly at a tall, grey haired man who looked to be in his late forties. From the corner of her eye, Maryanne watched the redhead run her tongue slowly across her bottom lip. The man’s jaw dropped, and he passed on without so much as a glance at any other woman.

  “Smile,” Libby hissed urgently, and Maryanne looked up. A young fair officer, blushing profusely, took a tentative step towards her.

  “Wh…What’s your name?” he stuttered nervously.

  “Maryanne Watson.”

  “She’s a parson’s da
ughter,” Libby informed him.

  Several sailors leered at them as they went about their business. Still no captain.

  “Letting us know just how worthless he thinks we are,” Libby stated.

  “Oh.”

  The officers moved away and stood in a group. “Discussing us as if we were cattle. Toffy bastards.”

  “Libby, why did you tell me to smile at the young officer?”

  “Because I want him to choose you.”

  “What!”

  “I’d be prepared to take an oath on it, he prefers young boys.” Her lip curled with distaste.

  “How ghastly.” Maryanne couldn’t hide her shock.

  “Yes, isn’t it? Don’t you see, he’ll have to choose a woman or the others will guess what he is.”

  Revulsion curdled Maryanne’s stomach. She had truly descended into the depraved depths of hell.

  “You probably wouldn’t have to do more than warm his bed and keep his clothes in order.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can tell by looking at him. That dark man, well, he’s the ship’s surgeon, handy man to be in good with.”

  Libby’s way of putting things sounded repugnant, yet Maryanne couldn’t dislike her for it. She was fighting for survival the only way she knew how.

  Her head ached with the effort not to faint or be sick. I won’t give in, she vowed desperately. I mustn’t. Gritting her teeth, she concentrated on trying to recognise anyone in a group of newly arrived women.

  The men were lined up, too, now; most of them grim and sullen, with all the fight beaten out of them. Several sported raw welts on their faces. Her gaze suddenly locked with that of Jake Smith. His head was thrown back arrogantly. His lips softened momentarily into a smile for her, before taking on a determined harshness. He looked like a warrior, untamed, savage, and beholden to no man. Her legs shook and her knees started buckling.

  Libby pinched her waist. “Don’t faint, wriggle your toes.”

  The captain, a plump, pompous little man with bushy side-whiskers, finally arrived. His uniform, though stretched tightly across his bulging stomach, appeared immaculate, and a fancy silver sword rested against his leg.

  The officers and crew snapped to attention as he marched up to the male prisoners. “It will take at least six months before we reach our destination. We will all get along splendidly if you remember one thing. I am the law here. I am God. I expect absolute obedience and will tolerate nothing less. You will be divided into messes of six, and you may elect your own leader. Rations will be reduced at my discretion. For those prisoners who show they can be trusted, there will be work above decks.”

  An angry mutter came from the male convicts.

  “If you behave yourselves while we are at sea, you will be allowed up on deck in two hour shifts. In port, the hatches will be battened down, and you will remain below decks. Solitary confinement on bread and water, and flogging, awaits anyone who defies an order, for laziness or insolence to any member of my crew.”

  Maryanne kept wriggling her toes in case fainting might be construed as an act of insolence.

  “Our ship’s surgeon, Dr Anderson, will organize sewing and reading classes during the voyage for those who prove they can behave in a civilized manner. Act like animals, and you will be treated as such.”

  Maryanne looked up to find Jake staring at her. She gave a tentative smile, and though his facial muscles did not move, his blazing eyes darkened.

  He stood head and shoulders above the other convicts, not just because of his height and rugged, brooding features. There was arrogance in his stance, an aura of something almost primitive. An untamed savagery that reached out to ensnare her.

  Blood pounded in her ears; her heart thudded so wildly she wondered why it did not completely catapult out of her chest. Finally, they started moving towards the hatchway.

  Below decks, the fetid air smelt foul with the stench of excrement, dirty bodies and unwashed monthly rags. Through the dimness filtering out from a couple of lamps her frightened eyes noticed two tiers of berths, one on either side. They looked large enough for perhaps half a dozen people to lie side by side. She judged the heights between decks to be eighteen inches or so higher than her five feet two inches. How could she bear it? Already the confined space started to close ominously around her.

  “Here, Libby, I saved a place for you next to me.”

  “Thanks, Bridget.” Libby pushed Maryanne towards the closest berth to the hatchway.

  “We’ll get more air here,” Bridget went on, as they put down their pitiful bundle of belongings.

  “Maryanne, meet Bridget.” They exchanged greetings as Libby rattled on. “I’ve taken this young miss from the parsonage under my wing.”

  “Ah, another of your lame ducks,” Bridget said in husky, not unpleasant tones.

  “Except for getting more air, the back part is better, closer to the men. There are only a few planks separating us. Some women have already worked out a signal system for communication.”

  “Now harlots,” a fat guard growled. “Your leg irons will stay on till we lift anchor; hatches will remain closed, too. If I got my way, I’d keep you filthy whores chained below decks for the whole voyage.”

  “Libby,” Maryanne’s voice wavered. “I don’t think I’ll be able to stand being locked down here.”

  “Don’t give up, me darlin’. Wonder how an American like Jake Smith ended up here? Must ask Bridget. Nothing she doesn’t know about men. My guess is he bedded another man’s wife.” The redhead nudged Maryanne and gave a knowing wink. “He’s a lusty devil, I’ll wager my life on it.”

  Maryanne didn’t want to think of Jake Smith in such terms. She’d rather believe he was a victim of someone else’s treachery like her.

  The stench became overpowering once the hatches were battened down. She stretched out on the bench, willing herself to sleep. I mustn’t be afraid; things could be worse. At least I’ve got Libby for a friend and protector. Jake, too. She desperately hoped to see him when they were allowed up on deck again.

  “You’re in my mess.” An extremely thin woman came up to them. “There are six of us including you, Bridget.”

  “I’m Libby, this is Maryanne.”

  “Hannah,” the woman grunted. “Berths have to be cleaned by eight thirty. If you’re sick, nine o’clock is when you see the doctor. All prison decks are supposed to be fumigated regularly. Haven’t been done yet.” She spoke in short, harsh sentences. “Chains off once we sail.”

  “How long have you been on the ship, Hannah?” Maryanne asked.

  “Three months.”

  “So long?”

  “A lot of women have been here six months,” Hannah growled.

  “What’s the food like?” Libby butted in.

  “Gruel mainly, oatmeal and water, pea soup sometimes, and a bit of pork or ships biscuits. There’s wine if you can afford to pay for it.”

  As the day wore on, Maryanne became more accustomed to her surroundings, and started to distinguish the different types of women. Some used the vilest language imaginable; one or two seemed quite cultured. Many spoke in the manner of uneducated country girls, yet they were all joined together by a common bond—survival.

  How many of them would be left alive by the end of their journey, she wondered frantically? To what depths of depravity would she have sunk by then?

  Chapter 2

  After a week of waiting they finally sailed. They had been allowed up on deck for only an hour each day in groups of ten. Though they wore leg irons and were chained together, making movement extremely difficult, it felt heavenly having fresh air blowing in their faces.

  Maryanne had not been able to speak with Jake Smith again, but she often saw him. The longing to get to know him better grew as each day passed. He took over her thoughts during the day and haunted her dreams at night. Those burning green eyes followed her every movement, even when he was in a work party loading stores.

  “Well, th
is is it,” Libby said as she and Maryanne clung together on their bunks. “I don’t think any of us will ever see old England again.”

  This comment intensified the moaning and wailing of several women who had left husbands and children behind. Word spread below decks like wildfire. They were making ready to put to sea. The shouted oaths of sailors, the noisy activity somehow permeated the closed-in darkness of their prison. There came a loud groaning of timbers, and a tremor suddenly shook the ship as it lifted and rolled, causing Maryanne’s stomach to plunge.

  Within an hour most of the women were sick and vomiting. “Isn’t there something we can do?” she asked, using some of her precious water ration to dampen a rag so she could wipe Libby’s face and mouth.

  “I’m going to die,” the Irish girl moaned.

  “No you won’t,” Maryanne reassured, swallowing down on her own queasiness.

  If we could just get some fresh air it would help. Dare she ask one of the soldiers for permission to speak with the ship’s surgeon? Surely he could give them something?

  I won’t be sick, I mustn’t. Libby looked to be in a dreadful state. If something happened to her they would both die. I’m doing this for Libby. She repeated the words over in her mind as she squeezed her friend’s hand. I would be dead by now if she hadn’t looked after me. With the ship rolling and pitching so badly when they had scarcely travelled any distance, it did not bode well for when they were out on the open sea.

  “I’m going to see if they’ll let me speak with the surgeon,” Maryanne told her friend determinedly.

  “What’s the use, I’m going to die.” Libby started retching again.

  “No you aren’t. Remember our pact. We will survive. Come on.” She took hold of the Irish girl’s hand. “Repeat after me. We will survive. We will survive.”

  “Oh God, not feeling like this I won’t.”

  “You will.”

  Maryanne squelched through puddles of vomit. When the ship started pitching and swaying even more dramatically, she grabbed on to the berths and edged along sideways, so as not to lose her footing. Fortunately, they were fairly close to the hatchway, otherwise she never would have made it.