Click this link to purchase Mystic Mountains
When I had the germ of
an idea for a story about a woman who was transported to Botany Bay, my
research was mainly carried out at the library (before the days when research
could be done at your computer). During one of my forays at the library I found
a treasure. This book was a collection of letters written mainly by women who
had accompanied their pioneering menfolk to
Australia. Among these letters sent home to her family in England, was one
written by Elizabeth Hawkins which chronicled the hair-raising journey she, plus
her large brood and her elderly mother, undertook with her husband who took on
a post out at Bathurst west of Sydney. Most who travelled along that hazardous
path west across the mountains in those early days were seeking fresh pastures
for their flocks.
When
visiting Sydney and the surrounding areas these days it is difficult to imagine
what it must have been like when it was a penal colony in the 1800s. Botany Bay
was an unforgiving and harsh place where the convicts who were transported from
Britain were treated like the scum of the earth. Isabella is one of these
unfortunates who was sentenced to seven years transportation. The trip across the
ocean would have been horrific enough in those days, but then to arrive in an
Australia that was little more than a collection of huts with little sanitation,
plus knowing that the women would be assigned to a master when they arrived.
Bella was fortunate in that the master who chose her at the docks had dreams
above his station, and was not solely after a new bed-warmer. She was
determined to hate Tiger Carstairs, for he was an Englishman, and she was sent
to the penal colony for attacking one such as him. Their journey west across
the mountains was made to follow his dream.
Excerpt
from Mystic Mountains (Settlers Book One)
Chapter One
March 1818 Sydney Cove.
A
wind as hot as the devil's breath sent the longboat rocking. Isabella tried not
to think about her roiling stomach as she raised a hand to shield her eyes from
the sun that blazed down on them. Fear, like some deadly snake, coiled itself
around her innards, sliding viciously into every muscle and bone, every part of
her body, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.
The
woman Isabella now counted as a true friend groaned. "S'pose we'll 'ave to
get used to this heat," she muttered as she ran a hand around her nape and
blew a strand of greasy hair out of her eyes. "'Tis hotter 'ere than it
was on the stinking ship when we was anchored off Rio de Janeiro!"
Isabella
grimaced. "That's a fact, Gracie." They had been forced to get used
to a lot of things, a deep and abiding despair more than anything else.
"These
blooming six days we've been stuck out on the water 'ave seemed longer than the
whole bloody voyage," Gracie grumbled. "Gawd but it'll be good to get
me old feet on solid ground again."
Isabella
wrapped her arms about her middle and shuddered, swallowing the bile that
threatened to choke her. "I don't ever want to see the ocean again as long
as I live, Gracie." Much as she might wish she were back in Stepney; she
would never want to repeat that dreadful voyage. A violent storm lasting for
nearly two days coming round The Cape had caused such wretchedness they'd
feared they would all perish. No, she wouldn't care if she never saw the ocean
again.
Gracie
nudged Isabella as the wharf loomed before them. "Well, girl, 'ere we go,
'ow d'ya feel, eh?"
"As
if a mess of worms are wriggling about inside me, that's how."
Even
when evading the constables in the alleyways and back lanes of Stepney Isabella
had always felt that one day things would improve. That certainty died on the
day of her arrest. Gracie had tried to give her some hope for better days
ahead, but Isabella knew that a woman in her position had little hope for
anything in life, least of all a bright future.
Gracie
winked broadly at one of the sailors, now getting ready to stow the oars. He
blew a raspberry and she chortled. Isabella had no idea how she would get by
without Gracie. The older woman had been like a rock on the awful voyage.
Dougal too. She saw the Scot now on one of the other longboats, which was
carrying cargo. She waved and his plain face reddened as he shot her a cautious
grin.
The
first mate made a rude gesture. "Right, you lot," he shouted.
"Get a move on. The time has arrived for you to leave this illustrious
vessel. Steady now, we don't want you falling in the drink and spoiling your
nice clothes, do we?" He sketched a bow. "This here's Government
Wharf."
Isabella
felt like pushing him into the sea, but the small moment's triumph wouldn't be
worth the punishment she knew him capable of dishing out. How she hated him.
Sweat trickled between her breasts and ran down her legs and she trembled as
much with fear as with anticipation.
The
man leered and suddenly grabbed her arm. "Now we'll see 'ow you'll manage
without that Scottish dolt watching over you every step of the way. You got
away with it on the ship, slut, but let's see how you like having one of those
toffs putting his hands under your shift, eh?" He grinned evilly as he
nodded to the men milling about on the wharf. "And not only his hands.
He'll be poking on you with more than his hands, mark my words."
Isabella
squirmed. "Let me go!" But he tightened his grip until she thought
her arm might break.
"I
will, after you gives me a little thank you kiss for being so nice to
you." Before she could back off he pressed his wet sloppy mouth over hers.
He
was pushed aside, and forced to let her go or head into the water, as the women
jostled to be first off the boat.
"All
right, all right, don't shove," one shouted, elbowing Gracie.
Gracie
threw herself bodily at the first mate. "Whoops, must 'ave tripped,"
she said with a grin.
Isabella
wiped her mouth on the hem of her skirt, and jumped swiftly onto the dock. The
first mate shook a fist at Gracie and she waved audaciously. He cursed loudly.
Gracie
muttered, "Just look at that Marjorie, carrying on like the doxie she
is."
A
buxom woman on one of the other boats lifted her skirts and shook a leg, making
the boat wobble dangerously. The sailors guffawed. Some of the women made lewd
gestures and shouted obscenely to the sailors as they climbed out, adding to
the crew's amusement.
Isabella
was silent. She would never feel anything but heartsick at being brought to
this hostile land. Some women had stolen with one purpose in mind: to join
lovers and husbands already transported, and these few were cheerful at the
prospect of being reunited with their menfolk.
Her
thoughts were interrupted by a shout. "That there's The Rocks." The
first mate jerked his head towards the cottages and shacks sprawled on the
hillside. "If any of you ladies is interested in working in the public
houses and rum taverns, that's where you should head," he said, amid
coarse laughter from his mates.
"Gawd,
let's 'ope we've seen the last of pubs, eh?" Gracie said as Isabella
huddled closer to her side. Gracie had made no secret of being a whore in
London. To most of the women, whoring was the only means of supporting
themselves and families apart from thieving. Isabella shuddered and Gracie
patted her hand. "You'll have no need to end up over there, you wait and
see."
"I
hope to God I don't, Gracie." For a period back there in Stepney she had
expected to spend the rest of her days as a whore. Most of the young girls in
that slum had resorted to selling their bodies to save themselves from
starvation.
But
for good or evil, that scum of a gentleman had put paid to that expectation.
She
grimaced as Gracie went on blithely, "I saw it in me tea leaves, you're
gonna make yer fortune 'ere in the colony." She chuckled at Isabella's
skeptical look.
"Oh
Gracie, what am I going to do without you?" Isabella shook her head. The
thought of their impending separation made her feel sick.
"You'll
do a treat, ducks, yes you will."
"I
only wish I was as certain," Isabella muttered. She'd been lucky to end up
with Gracie when the prisoners were split into mess groups at the start of the
voyage. Gracie had been her protector and her mentor. Not even a childhood
spent foraging for sustenance in Stepney, or the violence during her stay in
prison, prepared her for the hardness and cruelty of some of the thieving
harlots on the prison ship. Gracie held Isabella's hand when they'd peered
through the scuttle holes to get their last despairing glimpse of London,
knowing they'd never see it again.
Gracie
now tapped Isabella beneath the chin and grinned again, showing the many gaps
in her teeth. "You'll get a good master, don't fret, then all your
troubles will be over."
Isabella
had a feeling her troubles would never be over.
Dazedly
she watched as the boat dropped off the last woman and turned to head back to
the ship for the next load of human cargo. The haze caused by the swirling dust
gave the scene a sense of unreality. Sweat seemed to seep from every pore in
Isabella's skin, soaking her ragged clothing, but she'd grown used to almost
every form of human discomfort. What was a bit of sweat? The wind raced across
the wharf, the flying dust stinging her cheeks, bare arms, and ankles.
The
harbor was a cauldron of activity. Longboats ferried cargo to and from the
dozen or so ships bobbing at anchor in the cove, most bound for exotic and
oriental ports. At first sight of it the startling scenery had lifted the
convicts' flagged spirits after weeks of endless ocean, but that first sense of
exhilaration had soon dispelled.
Gracie nudged her. "Buck up dearie,
'ere's the nobs."
Isabella
tried to stop her fingers shaking as she wiped at her dry, cracked lips.
Soldiers, lined up and armed, stared at the unkempt women as if they were no
better than the rats that had swarmed below decks.
"Stand
to one side," one of the soldiers ordered and another waved his truncheon.
"What
do they think we are, a load of stupid sheep?" Isabella moaned.
"Ah
well, we should be used to it by now." Gracie sighed as they all moved to
where they'd been directed.
"They're
looking at us as if we're creatures on display at the fair. You'd think they've
never seen a female con before."
There
were men everywhere, not just the soldiers. They lurked around corners and on
rooftops, treating the arrival of a shipload of women as a spectacle.
"'Tis
a fact that we've been brought here because they have a shortage of women in
the colony, Bella. I s'pose that lot's waiting to find out which of us they're
gonna own, eh?" Gracie jerked her head towards a motley group of men
standing openly surveying them, eyes gleaming.
It
took some time to bring all the prisoners to shore. Isabella was close to
fainting with the heat before the final boatload was set down.
At a signal from one of the officials a
gentleman came out of a building. Moving with stiff precision to the center of
the dockyard, he stopped, then wiped his face on a white kerchief as he cast
his eyes along the row of women. Unsmiling, he announced, "On behalf of
Governor Macquarie I welcome you to New South Wales."
"God
bless me, if he don't sound like 'e's really glad to see us who've come from
the other side of the world at the King's pleasure." Gracie chuckled.
"Nice of Governor Macquarie to send one of 'is codgers to make sure we're
all 'appy to be 'ere."
"Yes,
happy as larks," Isabella retorted in a sharp whisper.
"As
you know," the man went on, "you have been allocated quarters or
assigned masters. These good men," he gave the officials a stiff smile,
"have spent many hours taking your particulars to ensure that everyone
goes to an appropriate place of employment. You will show your allegiance to
these masters. If you work hard to prove you are of some worth to the new
colony you will earn your freedom as many others have before you."
Obviously bored, he ran his eyes along the row of sweltering women. "Many
of you will be in far better positions than you would ever have hoped to attain
in England." He turned and strode back into the building.
Isabella
blew upwards in an effort to cool herself. She'd only taken in half of what
he’d said. She was a prisoner, for all his fancy words. Still, in the long run,
better to work here, hopefully in some nob's kitchen, than to rot in a prison
back home. Or face the hangman's noose.
Home?
It was so far away and so far removed from where she stood now, that it seemed
as if the years before she'd been arrested had been lived by another person.
But for all their poverty she'd always known what it was to be a part of a
close, loving family. Oh how she missed her ma, and her brothers and sisters.
Isabella ignored the leering looks they
received from men scurrying to off-load cargo. Her legs felt as if they would
give out on her at any moment. Her bad foot with its crooked toes was beginning
to ache fiercely and she swayed.
At
last they were herded to where a stern government clerk sat at a table, a
ledger in front of him and a pen in his hand.
Gracie
poked Isabella in the back. "I 'ope I get a strong 'ansome master,"
she said with a chuckle. "Like that one with the gold 'air over there.
Look at 'im. Lord, 'e'd do me fine. E’s been staring 'ard at us since we came
ashore. Stands out from the other lot like a boil on yer nose, don't 'e? Rather
a dandy, I don't mind saying so. I'll warm 'is bed any time 'e likes."
"Can't
say I noticed him," Isabella lied.
"Oh
no, suddenly you're blind, eh?"
"One
member of the gentry's the same as the other. They can all rot in hell."
Isabella shuddered. She detested them all, with their fine clothes, finicky
manners, and hearts as cold as stone.
"You
may sit on the ground, ladies." The officer in charge gave the order then
smirked as he marched away.
"Cripes,
why didn't they tell us that before?" Gracie sank with a huge sigh onto
her well-padded bottom. The others followed her.
* * *
Tiger
Carstairs removed his hat, then ran his fingers through his sweat-dampened
hair. Smiling grimly, he pushed the hat back on as he turned his back on the
bedraggled lines of women.
What
a bunch. They didn't get any better. Still, one female had caught his eye. She
was a bit short on flesh to cover her bones, but there was a light of defiance
in her eyes that the dreadful journey with all its degradation hadn't snuffed.
She'd stared right at him from eyes as green as the sea as she'd limped past,
her spine straight as a broomstick. He liked that.
Yes,
she'd do perfectly.
She
was young, if not very hearty, but Thelma had told him to keep his eye out for
one who didn't look as if she'd be off in a flash with any man who showed up at
the back door. This one hated men, if that glower she'd given him was anything
to go by. So blatant was her scorn he'd fully expected her to spit in someone's
eye. The sunshine had picked up glints in hair that would probably be
reddish-brown after a good washing. But the wench had really taken his fancy,
stirred some deep emotion. It was an unnerving sensation, peculiar in its
uniqueness.
"Ho,
Tiger Carstairs, after a new woman to warm your bed?" called one of the
other men who'd come to inspect the new arrivals.
Tiger
eyed the man coldly. Half of these poor dregs of humanity would end up as
bed-warmers for this lot. Still and all, most of the females who'd landed today
had whored in London and on the journey over, so the new life in the colony
would hold no surprises for them.
"No,
Mackenzie. Believe it or not, some of us are merely looking for women capable
of keeping our homes clean and our stomachs full." Tiger looked away,
watching the hustle and bustle of unloading.
Mackenzie's
laughter was coarse as he walked away. Probably rum soaked as usual. Tiger
sauntered over to the table where Gregson sat with his list of assignments.
"The
wench there with the cropped red hair, who's to take her?" he asked
indolently. "I'd like her."
"Have
to wait your turn, Carstairs. She's been assigned. I have your woman already
noted. Let me see..." Gregson ran a finger down his list. "Ah, yes,
you have been allocated one Moira Paine."
"I
don't want one Moira Paine unless it's that wench." Tiger pointed to the
red-haired girl. She was staring at her feet, looking for all the world as if
she was unaware of what was going on around her. Or had cut herself off from it
all.
Gregson
peered along the line to the woman in question. "What would you want with
a scrawny wench like that, eh?" He shrugged. "Mind you, she has the
makings of a beauty, I suppose."
"I
care not for looks, old chap." Tiger knew he lied. "My kitchen woman
needs a girl to help. This one looks capable."
"Oh
aye." Gregson chuckled. "She does look capable enough." He
leered, and Tiger hid a grimace of disgust. These men all had one thought in
mind where women were concerned, and that was having them on their backs with
their legs spread. "Hold on, old man, we're about to start allocating
now."
Tiger
eyed Gregson with annoyance. With a look along the line he saw that the wench
in question still stared at her feet. His heart gave a strange lurch, unsettling
him.
* * *
"Ah,
thank the Lord, I'm gasping for a drink," Gracie said when some women came
along the line with water jugs. "You cons?" she asked the one who
offered her a mug.
"Yea,
all of us." The woman grinned.
"'Ow
d'ya find it 'ere?"
"It's
a blooming laugh a minute ain't it?" She showed her toothless gums as she
threw her head back in a laugh. "Mind yer Ps and Qs and yer'll find it
ain't half bad," she advised, before going on down the line.
"Not
bad!" Gracie blew a raspberry, then wiped her mouth with the back of a
hand. "Gawd, but it's like a blooming oven out 'ere, ain't it?" She
wiped the hem of her filthy skirt across her face, making streaks through the
grime.
Isabella
sighed wearily. Her bad foot ached, her stomach was twisted in knots, her hair
was lousy and she stank like a pile of animal droppings. The seasickness that
had racked her during the long months at sea was still with her, and the ground
seemed to be going up and down.
Now
the fear that had plagued her since she'd been herded onto the ship so many
months ago rose up to stifle her. Just what sort of master would she get? She
knew she was as strong as any woman here, but they would take one look at her
crippled foot and discard her as a domestic help. She'd get picked as some
man's whore for certain, that was all these high falutin' nobs sought. That was
how she'd got herself into this mess in the first place. By taking a knife to
one of them who'd thought it was his God-given right to lay his white pampered
hands on her.
With
a small sob, her right palm went to her stomach. The babe had lain there such a
short while. Although she'd loathed the thought of the nob's spawn resting in
her womb, when the growing babe had been torn from her she had mourned its
loss. It hadn't been the babe's fault; and perhaps it had been better off not
coming into this cruel world.
One
of the babies born on board began to whine and Isabella stared at its
screwed-up face. Poor mite. Its mother, a doxie who'd worked the streets of
Islington, put the child to her sagging breast.
Heartsick
and afraid of what the future held, Isabella put her face on her bent knees and
closed her eyes.
Chapter Two
Ignoring
the others as they tossed ribald jokes about the armed soldiers back and forth,
Isabella tidied her hair as best she could with her fingers. How she longed for
a bath; she'd give her right arm to be able to sink herself into a tub of warm
fresh clear water instead of salt water.
"All
right, enough primping," a guard said, smirking as he poked her on the
shoulder. "Up you get and go over to the table when your name's called. No
hustling, an' behave yourselves. You never know, the guvner his self may pick
you." One of his comrades gave him a dig in the ribs and they both
chortled.
Isabella
let the contempt she felt for him show as she picked up her bundle and slowly
rose. If she didn't know she would get clapped in irons she'd spit in his ugly
pig's eyes.
The
women shuffled about, and the baby began to bawl loudly. Isabella spotted
Dougal among the crewmen who'd just unloaded some cargo from one of the
longboats. Her friend was frowning and she sent him a wan smile. He looked
about, then waved discreetly, mouthing, "You all right?"
Isabella
nodded warily. Would she ever be all right again? Had she ever been all right
in her whole life? At nineteen she sometimes felt as if she'd lived a hundred
years; most of them with an empty stomach, and heavy heart.
The
woman next to her wiped a hand over her runny nose and sniffed, swearing
obscenely beneath her breath as the man behind the table stood up.
"First
I will call the names of the women going to Parramatta to be assigned to
masters in that district," he shouted. "These females will form an
orderly line over here." He waved a hand carelessly. "You will then
be escorted to the master attendant's boat for the short trip upriver."
The
troublemaker, Marjorie, was among the thirty or so whose names he called. As
constables led them off Marjorie lifted her skirts, showing her bare bottom to
the soldiers. A couple of the other women did the same. One or two of the
rowdier women made catcalls and began singing a bawdy song.
The
official ignored them and the boisterous calls they'd brought on. Nodding to
the group of male onlookers, he called, "Now then, Isabella O'Shea."
Isabella jumped. "Isabella O'Shea, come forward now!"
Gracie
gave her a soft nudge and mumbled a word of encouragement. Gripping a fold of
her skirt in a fist, her head held high so that no one would guess at her
nervousness, Isabella stepped over to the table.
"That's
me." Her clear voice showed no sign of her inner turmoil.
"Ah
yes, I see you're Irish born," he read from his ledger. "You were
tried on the twenty-third of May eighteen seventeen. Attempted murder!" He
sneered, his slash of a mouth twisting. "Your sentence is seven years. My
God, His Lordship must have been feeling soft that day."
Isabella pressed her lips together.
"No
previous convictions. Must have been the reason he was so lenient." Giving
her lower half a sneering glance he added insolently, "And you have a
deformation of the toes of the right foot."
Isabella
lifted her chin higher. He made it sound as if she had two heads and a
hunchback. "Yes, that's so," she assured him clearly, her shoulders
going back until they ached.
"I'll
take the useless wench." A lump of a man with a distinct Irish brogue
strode over to stand beside Isabella.
She
began to shake. He looked as if he'd slept in the same clothes for a year. His
beady eyes reminded her of an ugly bird of prey she'd seen once in a book, a
vulture, yes that was what it was called. Arms too long for his body flopped at
his sides.
"Gawd,
girl, you don't want that pile of shit taking you," Gracie called out.
"'Ere guv, take a look at me lovely titties. Choose me instead." She
pushed her ample breasts forward and leered at the Irishman.
But
he wouldn't have noticed Gracie if she threw herself naked into his arms. As if
the matter were decided he yanked Isabella towards him, slobbering.
Isabella
dug her heels into the ground. No! She screamed inwardly. Sweet heaven—had she
come through the sea journey unscathed only to end up in the bed of this son of
the devil?
"Just
a minute," a calm level voice ordered.
Malloy
turned to face the tall fair-haired man who strolled towards them.
He
had yellow-gold eyes, Isabella noticed; eyes the like of which she'd never seen
on any man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with narrow hips. But her eyes
were drawn to his handsome face, with a nose that was straight and elegant, a
wide brow, a firm chin.
His
strong legs were encased in breeches. He wore knee-high boots and his white
shirt, open almost to his waist, showed a V of brown flesh covered with golden
hairs. The sun glinted in them, making them sparkle. He seemed to be surrounded
by a glowing aura and Isabella shook her head slightly to rid herself of the
impression the man was a golden god. There was a vitality and arrogance about
him that made every other man in the area fade into insignificance.
"What
you want, Tiger Carstairs?" Malloy snarled.
No
mistaking where this Tiger had acquired his nickname. With that mane of hair
and his eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to a wild animal. At this moment
he looked like a lion about to pounce on his prey. Every woman in the line had
turned to watch him.
"Now,
ain't 'e the finest bit of man flesh you ever laid yer eyes on," the woman
now at the front of the line declared loudly, sashaying her hips and whistling
through her brown teeth.
"Keep
yer filthy maulers off him, Gert," Gracie hissed. Isabella turned in time
to see Gracie giving Gert a jab in the ribs with her elbow. "I have a
feeling 'e's not the sort to cavort with strumpets such as you, yer old
faggot."
"Aw—a
girl can dream," Gert sighed, clutching at the neck of her shift until her
breasts almost popped out of the torn bodice.
"I
have a letter from the Governor's office that states I have the right to select
a female of my choice from this shipment, Malloy," Tiger Carstairs stated
calmly. "So take your filthy mitts off the girl. I saw her first."
Astonished,
Isabella stared at him. The boldness in his eyes as he looked her over was
startling.
"I
'ave a letter from the Guvner's office," Malloy mimicked, pulling his
mud-spattered trousers up with a jerk. "Sod off Carstairs, an' take your
sodding letter with you!"
Isabella
also glared at this Tiger. He looked as if he thought he owned the very ground
beneath his feet. Another Englishman making claims on her. Another of the
arrogant aristocracy. He must be a nob if he was a friend of the Governor.
Isabella
cringed inside. Every Englishman was the devil's spawn. Most of the women in
the line were now calling out their willingness to go with him. They could take
her place as far as she was concerned. The arrogant golden-haired man ignored
all the offers and catcalls as if he hadn't heard them, continuing to appraise
Isabella, making her feel like a fattened calf at the market.
"The
wench comes with me," the ugly Irishman claimed, his slash of a mouth
twisting in a parody of a grin.
Despite
the heat Isabella shivered as he wiped a drop of spittle from his chin with a
filthy hand whose nails were bitten to the quick. Dirt was ingrained into his
flesh. She doubted he'd washed in months, perhaps years.
"I
beg to differ, Malloy. She comes with me," the tall Englishman said.
"Now,
just a minute both of you," the official interrupted. "The lass has
been assigned to work in the kitchens of Mr. Tonkins. It's not up to either of
you to decide on the matter." With a glance at Tiger Carstairs he put up a
hand and called, "Mr. Tonkins, come and collect your charge."
Isabella's
knees went weak with relief when a small rotund man came forward, a cautious
look on his kindly ruddy face. Obviously not of the gentry, he looked to be a
tradesman of some sort, his homespun clothes plain, his boots unpolished.
But
her relief was short-lived when he said diffidently, "I have no problem
with exchanging my assignee with Tiger's." He gave the tall man a wary
glance. "I simply want a young woman to assist my Emily with her household
chores. It matters little who I get as long as she's young and able."
Isabella could have screamed her outrage. With a pleading glance at him she
silently begged this Mr. Tonkins to change his mind.
But
Gregson said, "Very well. That's settled," and she knew her fate was
set. With a long-suffering sigh the official drew a line across the page,
altering names. "If you're willing to change, and Mr. Carstairs has a
letter from the Governor's office, it's a matter between you. Moira Paine, come
forward. You go with Mr. Tonkins."
"But,
but . . ." The man named Malloy pressed his palms on the table. His face
was turning purple and more spittle flew from his mouth.
Gregson,
the government man, took a kerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his face.
"For goodness sake go over there and await your turn, Malloy. Now,"
he ordered when the Irishman dallied, a stubborn look in his watery eyes.
The
giant called Tiger took Isabella's arm and began to lead her away. Amused, the
guards shouted obscene remarks. He ignored them.
"Take
care girl," Gracie called.
Isabella
sent a smile tinged with nervousness and terror over a shoulder as she was
steered across the wharf. Helpless despair filled her. This Tiger Carstairs who
now owned her body and soul led her silently along narrow alleys. Raucous cries
of street traders and mixed smells of cooking food and animal droppings
reminded her vaguely of the back streets of Stepney.
Men
and women the worse for drink sprawled on high steps in front of shops
displaying red and white poles by their doors. Isabella had seen the likes back
home and knew exactly what trade these shops plied. For a moment she considered
breaking free and rushing over to one of them for sanctuary. Perhaps whoring
for seamen was a better option than being this English gent's property.
At
the end of a narrow street they went up some steep steps. When he saw that with
her limp she couldn't mount as easily as he, Tiger Carstairs slowed his pace
without letting go of her arm. At the top he went up to one of the assorted
wagons secured there, and stopped, giving Isabella a furious glance when she
fidgeted.
"Be
still, woman," he ordered, shaking her none too gently.
"I'd
just as soon have gone with that Mr. Tonkins," she told him haughtily,
trying to get free.
"You
have no say in who you go with. Tonkins now has his woman and is quite happy.
Would you rather have gone with the Irishman? Yes?" he asked when she
remained mute. "Perhaps I should have let him take you. Do you know what
the likes of Malloy would do with you, hmm? Well, let me tell you, he'd use
your scrawny body until it was fit for naught but feeding the sharks out in the
cove. The last woman who went with him is now dead and buried, and probably
grateful to be there, instead of being used by him."
"I
might have preferred going with him," Isabella lied. "Anything would
be better than being the chattel of an English pig."
His
heavy golden brows drew together. "So, 'tis a pig I am is it? If you think
I'm a swine then let me tell you about Malloy, wench. He's a debaucher of the
worst kind. Why else do you think he wanted a skinny little wench like you?
Especially one who walks with a limp and who doesn't have the strength to lift
a kettle, by the looks of her." His strange golden eyes skimmed her from
head to toe in open scorn.
"Then
why did you pick me if you think I'm such a poor choice?"
"Heaven
knows. I must be mad. I should have left you to Tonkins, or let Malloy have his
way. All right. You win."
He
curved his fingers about her upper arm and made to drag her back the way they'd
come. "Right, let's go back. I've now lost my original woman to Tonkins,
but I'm sure if Malloy hasn't made his choice yet he'll be more than willing to
accept you. I'll get whatever is left. You can have the pleasure of warming
that old lecher's bed until you lose every scrap of self-respect, until your
body has been reduced to a sniveling wreck or you die of the pox. Come on,
then, let's go," he said when she stood firm, her feet planted in the
dust. "Damned if I have the time for a cripple with a foul temper anyway."
Isabella
put a hand to her throat. What a beast! But then what was she to expect from an
Englishman? Especially one who looked as if he'd never done a hard day's work
in his life.
Tiger
watched the emotions cross her face; an expressive face, with large eyes that
sparkled with such animosity he could practically feel it touching him. She had
a fading bruise on her chin, and shadows beneath eyes that reminded him of the
sea on a fine day. Her hair, which had been chopped short with a blunt knife by
the looks of it, stuck out like a nest of rats' tails.
Why
in blazes was he bothering? Deep down he knew the answer to that, but it was
something he wasn't willing to confront at this moment; probably never would.
Tiger dropped her arm and turned his back on her,
thrusting his hands in the pockets of his breeches. He began to whistle.
"All
right. I'll come with you," she said. "But only on one
condition."
A
choked laugh burst from his lips. He turned and gave her a mocking stare.
"You're a bloody convict, woman—you have no rights whatsoever. You make no
conditions."
Now
wasn't the time to let this man see how nervous she was. "I'll come with
you. But . . . could my friend Dougal come to work for you too?"
There,
she'd said it, even though her voice wobbled. Raising her chin in a show of
bravado she forced her shoulders back. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, her ma
had always told them. The worst he could do was say no, or beat her. And one
more bashing would make little difference.
"Dougal's
very strong and tough as old boots. He knows all there is to know about
animals, especially sheep. I noticed there seems to be a lot of those witless
creatures yonder on the hills." She turned her head in the general
direction of where Dougal had pointed out the sheep he'd spotted from the
ship's rail.
A
square-tipped finger was jabbed at her nose and she took a step back. "I
don't believe this! You've got the nerve of the devil, d'you know that? You've
just stepped off a convict ship. Just who the bloody hell do you think you
are?"
Isabella
could have sworn she saw amusement in those strange eyes of his. How dare he
laugh at her?
"I'm
as good as any English scum," she spat, then put a hand over her mouth,
expecting a slap for her insolence.
But
he drawled, "So 'tis scum I am is it? You don't know the meaning of the
word if you think that's what I am, little biddy." He stared at her, long
and hard, his face so near that Isabella shivered and shrank back from the
mocking glint in his eyes. Then, rubbing his jaw, he stunned her by agreeing,
"All right, what's his name, this lover of yours that you can't bear to be
parted from?"
Isabella
swallowed, her eyes widening in amazement. Dougal had never been her lover;
never would be. He was just a dear friend. But best not let this man know that.
Dougal
had successfully shielded her from the sickening and persistent advances of
some of the crew. It was taken for granted that once at sea the female
prisoners were the officers' for the taking, but Dougal, thank the Lord, had
established early on that Isabella was his woman, so keeping them at bay. It
had been harder to convince some of the crew members, and she knew he had
fought the largest and meanest man on board, and won, to keep the others clear
of her.
Dougal
was not very tall, but his well-muscled body enabled him to hold up his own in
a fight. Isabella dreaded to think what her fate could have been without him
and Gracie to champion her. But gratitude and friendship was all she felt for
Dougal.
"Jackson.
His name's Dougal Jackson. You won't be sorry if you take him on, I know you
won't. He's a hard worker, and he can take care of himself as well as any man.
He used to be a fist fighter in London."
A
glow of hope slowly began to fill Isabella. Perhaps everything would work out just
fine as Gracie had predicted. At least this Englishman was listening to her.
And that was something she'd never expected.
"English
eh? So, how come he isn't classed as a pig alongside all us Englishmen?"
Now she was certain he was laughing at her. At least while amused he wasn't
contemplating taking his whip to her for speaking out of turn.
"Dougal's
Scottish." She sniffed. "He worked his way over on the ship. He's
after starting out afresh and that was the only way he could get here. He said
he's going to look for work as a shepherd. Do you have sheep?"
"Aye,
I have plenty of the creatures." He nodded, his eyes narrowed on her as if
deep in thought.
A
grey horse with a rounded belly and glossy coat stood patiently between the
shafts of the four-wheeled wagon. Tiger Carstairs stroked a hand down its sleek
neck, thinking. Isabella held her breath.
Then
he said, "Stay here." He jabbed a finger beneath her nose again,
ordering, "Keep out of trouble. I'll go and see what I can do about your
lover."
Without
further ado he strode off down the path they'd just walked, his boots kicking
up dust. Very big and arrogant, he held his shoulders straight and proud.
Typical English gentry; walked as if he owned the world and all in it. Well,
truth was he owned her now. Biting her lip Isabella stroked the velvet nose of
the horse. It blew a soft breath on her face.
How
strange to be standing here free as a bird with no jailers or crew watching
over her. For a moment she felt odd; like a peddler's monkey she'd once seen.
It had become so used to being caged or chained that when it had accidentally
gained its freedom one day it just stayed by its cage shivering and chattering,
awaiting its fate. It had received a clip round the ear when the peddler
returned.
Some
children were scampering about nearby and one of them stopped to stare at her.
A woman dressed in a severe grey frock with a high collar and starched apron,
obviously the girl's nurse, pulled her away sharply, glaring at Isabella as if
she was worth nothing.
Isabella
poked her tongue out at the woman's back. The tart was probably no better than
she was; a con. Now, how good would that be, to end up being a nanny or a
governess to some wealthy nob's children. She sighed; another foolish dream.
Who would employ a chit of a girl from the slums of Stepney to teach their
offspring?
The
children were full of beans, laughing carelessly. Even their faces looked
different from the half-starved urchins populating the streets of London. These
healthy, strong-limbed children were happy. Isabella guessed their exuberance
was due to the confidence of not having to worry where their next meal was
coming from. They doubtless wouldn't know what it was to steal to get food in
their bellies.
Her
attention was caught by a flock of birds, some sort of parrots. Noisily they
argued over perches in a nearby tree. Their plumage was a vivid green and
several shades of blue, the brightest colors she'd ever seen. The tree was
strange; its branches spread wide and high, its trunk shedding its bark. There
was a stark sort of beauty in its gangly shape; quite unlike the oak, poplars,
and elms of England.
Taking
a few deep breaths Isabella turned slowly, her face to the sun, feeling
slightly light-headed. What heaven after the confining horror of the ship. This
English gent who'd gone to try and fetch Dougal couldn't be all bad to have
agreed to her demand.
Hold
on, Bella, she cautioned. Don't go getting all soppy at this late stage. He's
an Englishman. No doubt he'll have you warming his bed in short time. Likely
he'll want Dougal there too. She'd heard plenty of tales on board about the
loathsome acts some of the gentry tried to force the maids and lads in their
service to perform for them. Of course—that was probably why he'd agreed so
readily to fetch Dougal.
A
thought hit her then: he'd left her here alone. She didn't have to dally like
that stupid monkey. What was there to stop her making off? Glancing about, she
prepared to make a run for it.
But
then she chided herself. Don't be a fool, Bella. Where would you go, and what
would you do? The crew had told tales of the wild endless jungle beyond the
town and how a person could die of thirst in the desert that went on forever
beyond the limits of the colony. Of course she could lose herself in the maze
of streets here on this hill but there was little doubt what life would have in
store for her if she did. No doubt her English master would delight in dishing
out his punishment once he found her; which she was positive he would, with his
connections to the Governor.
Might
as well wait and see if the Englishman kept his word and brought Dougal back.
At least Dougal would watch out for her. She and Dougal could run off together
once they had the lie of the land worked out. She'd have more chance of survival
with her faithful friend beside her.
A
row of filthy prisoners shuffled by in a line, their odd clothing bearing a
pattern of arrows. Their ankle shackles clanked and Isabella shuddered when she
caught sight of raw and festering skin beneath the fetters. A few of them
called out obscenely to her and the guard in charge of them wielded his weapon
and shouted an order to keep moving.
Isabella
swallowed as she watched until they were out of sight. Then she looked down at
her own legs. At least she wasn't shackled like those poor wretches. And not
locked up in some filthy cell as she'd been for months back home. Shuddering,
she brushed a hand over her eyes. Nightmares still haunted her of that cell and
her fellow inmates. Once the sun set her fears came back to torment her, and
probably always would. The stink, the heat, then the intense cold; the fear
when she'd begun to bleed and the woman beside her had yelled for the guard
who'd leered at her blood-soaked skirts. If not for a kindly nun who came to offer
comfort to the women awaiting transportation she would be dead now.
The
heat made her sleepy. She yawned. They'd been up since the crack of dawn
staring anxiously at the shore, she and Gracie whispering their hopes and fears
of what would happen to them in this god awful colony the sailors had painted
such horrendous pictures about. So far it hadn't turned out anywhere near as
terrible as they'd expected. What was Gracie doing now? Had she fared any
better or worse?
There
was a flap at the back of the wagon that could be let down, but it was much too
high for her to climb up there so, after giving it a bit of thought, she
clambered up the front using one of the smaller wheels. She sat on the bench.
All at once she felt sick, weary, and scared out of her wits. Supposing this
Tiger Carstairs was as evil as most of the other gentry she'd ever come in
contact with.
Twisting
her fingers together to stop their trembling she looked straight ahead,
ignoring the ribald shouts from a group of marines ambling by. They were
obviously on their way to a tavern she could see on a corner of one of the
streets nearby, a din emanating from inside its smoky depths.
A
lot of time seemed to pass. Others from the prison ship came up the hill and
were driven away by their new owners. Some gave her strange looks when they saw
she still sat there, alone. Gracie wasn't among them and she worried over her
friend.
When
one of the other members of their mess came along with a stern-looking man
wearing a reverend's collar Isabella called, "Did you see what happened to
Gracie, Ethel?"
"The
old devil walked away with her new master. I think he's a nob," Ethel
shouted back before being hustled onto a cart.
Eventually
just the one wagon remained.
Isabella rested an arm on the iron rail at the back of the seat and put her head on it. Despite all the hustle and bustle going on around her, her eyelids began to droop.
