by Jan Needle
“Next time I’ll have you clean,” he said. “Next time I’ll have you civil.”
Jeremiah, if he resented not getting at least a sight of shagging, amused himself with a feel or two, taken in good grace, when he could easily have hurt her badly and never have been blamed. But the urine put him off, for which Deb was grateful (she’d heard in Dr Marigold’s of men who would pay more for things like that), so pretty soon she ended up with Joan and Sue, whose job turned out to be to strip her down and scrub her, which they did as viciously as possible until they saw the scars and bruises her body bore already, when they seemed dampened, if not ashamed. When they decided they would talk, not sneer at her for her immoral life and strange outlandish accent, she decided she would answer, and confirmed that Dennett and their master, between the two of them, had done the injuries, and she would presumably get worse until she ran away again. At which they told her one man had had his leg broken by Fiske and Jeremiah for letting her escape and Dorothy, chief woman to Milady, had been whipped naked in the yard for getting her mistress past the guard to start with and causing all the mayhem. Deb was amused to hear them beg her to stay put in future, for fear of punishment they might have to suffer if she ran.
“But you will not,” said Sue, a simple girl. “The place is like a fortress now, and we’re locked in even washing you, and the place where you’re to have your room is right up yonder in the roof, with no way down but one, and guards, and locks, and I don’t know what all else. And Fiske and Jeremiah will shoot you like a rat, or cut you down like wheat. That surgeon man of yours got his payment in the throat, and Milady’s dead and gone, an ’all. There’s no compunction killing in this place, believe you me!”
There was no compunction either, it appeared, in Wimbarton’s search for sex. Milady — lord, the graces of that woman, who was just a slut from gutterland in their opinion! — Milady had come as a replacement for an earlier, and Dorothy (much older than her girls) remembered other ones before. Milady, though, had ruled him with a rod of iron, and told them, and all and sundry, how he’d fell in love with her, and she was different. More impressive that would have been, they started, if the master had not — Then giggled, and rolled their eyes. She could end up as a wife, Joan finished it unkindly, but most whores he’d had there ended up as whores.
“And such a ratty little bugger,” crowed Sue. “Like a bloody scarecrow that couldn’t lift a skirt. Well let me tell you, lover, he’s got a prick on him you could stir a pudding with. I know, I’ve had some, and I’m bloody ugly, ain’t I? So don’t give yourself no fancy airs round here. You’re nothing special, are you?”
But for all that they were friends, as women in these situations went, and Deb knew that she was close enough in spirit to them not to be as quickly hated as the one they called, so sneeringly, Milady or Mistress Corpse. She could not really see herself ending up a wife to Chester Wimbarton, or so-called wife or consort, because just at that moment she thought she’d rather die. He must know by this time also, that maids young enough to be his grand-daughter had nothing to offer except quick poking and a smirk (or pained expression) hid behind a hand or handkerchief. If he’d moved so far beyond the law as to murder wives and passing mountebanks without the slightest fear, he must know similarly, that young maids could be bought in quick succession, used, and turned on to the road. As for that, she hoped it might be soon.
They fed her, then they took her to her room and locked her in. It was a pleasant place enough, with a bed adequate for the business, some chairs, a cupboard and a table, but the dormer was too high to get a view out of, except of sky, and had been nailed or jammed to open only its fixed amount. Like the room she’d shared with Dennett, it had a closet off, where she found a pail and a jug of water and some soap. For clothes, Sue and Joan left only shifts and a flimsy gown for keeping off the draughts, and nothing for her feet. If she was to run, she would run naked in the world. Deborah sat down to wait.
Her fate, if coming, took a good long time. On the first day, when the women washed and left her, she spoke to no one else for many hours. Dorothy brought her supper, but it was a Dorothy much changed. Remembered as Milady’s confidante, a robust country type brimming with life and vigour, she was cowed, enfeebled, with welts upon her face and one closed eye. She hardly spoke, but Deb got the message plain enough: this was how women ended up who defied the magistrate, the justice of the peace. Later, when they brought food next morning, Joan and Sue crowed at her reduction. She’d thought, they chirruped contentedly, that she was Lady Muck. One more false step and she could join her mistress, in the grave.
“How did her mistress die?” asked Deborah, bluntly. “Did he kill her, to make way for me?”
But, “Good heavens, no!” they twittered, she just “stunk herself away.” Her head blew up to twice its natural size, until it burst one morning “in a storm of pus.” They pitched it horribly, but they were shifty all the while, and quickly left when she pursued the subject. Joan, going, warned her almost sternly to be “careful what she put abroad, or asked.” Deb lay on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and guessed the truth but knew she’d never know.
That day she spent many hours lying on her back and staring, for nobody returned to talk, or feed her, or to rape her or seduce her come to that, nor even to propose her as the lady of the manor and Wimbarton’s wife. She thought of many things and wished that she could read, because there was a Bible, and became frantic with both thirst and boredom. She slaked her thirst with water from her washing jug, which she’d made soapy earlier, but the boredom would not go away. She found it quite peculiar that she could be bored, in such a situation, when her recent life had had so many turns and twists and upsets, but it was so. She thought of Will, and the fun they’d had, and found it funny and a little sad he thought he loved her, maybe did. Much good it would do the both of them, fine chance of that! Which led her on to Wimbarton. He would come and have her, and if he liked it and the fates were right she might last a month or two until she was thrown out, or became an under kitchen maid to Joan or Sue or Cook or whoever superseded Dorothy. Or she might fall pregnant or get killed, who knew? She remembered Will again then, and the beauty of his small, slim body, pale but muscular, and hoped the magistrate, unclothed, would not be completely vile. As she went asleep she thought of Cecily, but only briefly. At least she, Deborah, still had her life.
Next morning she was right, her time had come and no escape. Joan and Sue brought breakfast, warm water, even a towel, and they were full of merriment at the morning fun planned out for her. They gave advice, pretended to, which boiled down to smile but not to laugh, never to laugh! Then made that hard for her by referring, archly, to the birthmark on his inner thigh, and his twisted knee, and the fact his prick would rise from a nest of hair all grey and sparse and straggled. It would rise though, Joan averred, which was more than some old pigs could manage, so at least she would enjoy herself. They made the whole thing sound like a circus, or a theatre show.
When he came in, the magistrate was not so jovial. He had a bitter face, and he did not disguise his purpose or let her think he might find pleasure in it. Once more she thought of bulls, remembering watching fascinated as they’d doggedly tramped from cow to cow to do their duty, as if all they wanted was to get it over with. He did not speak, excepting for a greeting grunt, nor did he take time to get ready. He was dressed in a loose smock tucked into breeches, which when he released them allowed the smock to drop so that he was still covered to the knees. The famous grey mare’s nest and pudding stirrer were thus obscured, except for a bulge in the smock material that rose and fell in a slight rhythm, as if there were an animal in there, and breathing. He stepped out of the ankled breeches, and his pair of soft slip-shoes, and advanced towards her with intent, so that Deb could only drop back to the bed. In his right hand — for fear she planned to claw at him, perhaps — he held a short, sharp knife.
Deb, as she sank back on the bed, realised she still had not formed a s
tratagem for dealing with this situation. She did not want this man — although he was not half so old or vile as Sue and Joan made out — she did not want, above all else, to lie with him, she was rendered hollow by her staring lack of choice. But as he forced on her, she lifted up her shift, and rolled her backbone into the yielding stuff, and moved her knees apart, for him to widen with his advancing thighs. As he hauled up his smock she glimpsed the club — quite long and massive, much bigger than her lover Will’s — thrusting, indeed, from a bed of grey-white curls. Then her head was back, her knees jerked up, and he pushed into her, his feet firmly on the ground, a forceful, painful, stab. Her eyes stayed open, his did not, but she kept her face composed politely, just in case he peeked. Four times he stabbed at her, five, six, seven, eight, with his upright leg bones pushing out her yielding ones, his hands clamped on her knees, the handle of the dagger digging in. Then he grunted, stopped, and stood more upright, eyes still shut, pumping in his stuff. Then blew air out of his closed lips, jerked backwards and his smock dropped down, and the dagger clattered to the floorboards as he took his hands away. He wiped his brow, his doxy smiling up at him, as if content.
“Good,” he said. “You’re a pretty little piece. Next time I’ll look at you all over.”
And he left.
*
Gunning was drunk, but not so drunk that Lieutenant Kaye could notice. Gunning could keep his feet like any seaman, and the act of pilotage down the Thames on a racing ebb came to him as second nature, so it appeared. The dangerous manifestations of his state, a refusal to give way to other ships however tight their situation until it was a hair’s-breadth off too late, and a wild aggression that moved him to seize the wheel when the helmsman made a move that he thought lily-livered, were mainly done when Slack Dickie was not looking, or were disregarded with an approving eye. Kaye was in a hurry, and Biter was moving fast. When one enraged captain shouted imprecations at them of the very vilest, his quarterdeck only fifteen feet from theirs, he only nodded at him insolently, lifting a rope’s-end as if offering a tow, the deepest insult in the sailor’s canon.
At breakfast time, however, he was not half so jolly. His two midshipmen were invited not for the pleasure of their company, but for a roasting. Black Bob served them, but he was sadder and more obsequious than ever, and was clouted when he raised a smile. Kershaw was also called, but hardly spoke a word, as if he’d been forewarned. Kaye was in the mood for hectoring.
First, their lateness of return. They had been released for five days, they had taken six (which was almost true). Second, their infernal insolence, to greet him on arrival not with apologies but with demands for further leave of absence. Third, the reason for their going, to aid the Customs House, as if those idle villains needed aid, as if those ingrates ever did a thing for Navy men except to harass them for trifles that officers, at least, brought in of right. And what had they discovered, he demanded, what had they achieved to justify his loss of them (not that they were any loss, damn sure they weren’t!)? This, when Sam answered stiffly and evasively, put him in a greater passion, because he knew from Wodderley’s first letter that their task concerned some missing officers and that the matter could in no wise be discussed. Did they find them, he demanded to be told, had they found the dogs, and if not why not, and if so why did they want more time for gallivanting? It occurred to William at about this time that Gunning was not the only member of the afterguard that had been sluicing brandy.
Later, while Will stood working on the foredeck with the men, Kaye called Sam Holt across to his point high to windward, and quizzed him harder. When Sam demurred the captain raised his voice, then led him off below to carry on discussing in the cabin. He said, as Will learned later, that Lord Wodderley’s second missive — received too late for him to act upon and let them go again, he claimed — had been extremely dubious about the value of their jaunting, and demanded yet again to know what interest they had in catching smugglers, and precisely what the outcome of their search had been. Sam, anxious to get the blustrous fool off the subject, hit on the Frenchmen-smuggling as a safe bet, and told how he and Mr Bentley had met a “woman spy” (he did not name her) who had come to England to aid prisoners to escape, and how they’d gleaned there was an operation being set in motion at about this very time — which was why, he hinted, they had been told off to go down and search some more.
Kaye’s hazel eyes grew keener at this point, less congested with undirected anger. What woman, how a spy, was what he wanted in more detail, but Sam began to hedge as if this were part of the secret too. For himself he felt sure the Céline link needed hard looking at, but he wanted nothing less than that Kaye should take a special interest. Enough the line should wean him off his probing into Sir A’s affair.
“It is nothing yet, sir,” he said, circumspectly. “Apparently the villains plan to spring them from a prison hulk and transport them back to France, but it is just a rumour till we stick our noses in it. As you can see though, it is the sort of thing their lordships play very close to chest; it’s more important than the running of some tea! In all likelihood it won’t add up to much though, will it, so if anyone’s to end up looking gulled, Will Bentley and myself will be the men!”
Kaye considered it, his transparent face incapable of much guile.
“Aye,” he said, almost to himself. “But interesting though, for all that. It’s not just trade for profit, is it, which some people think is not so… Nay, there’s treachery and stuff involved, there’s King and country.” He tailed off, his eyes refocusing on Sam’s. “Hah!” he exclaimed. “You’re right, there’s nothing in it. But I’ll be silent as the grave, so you may freely speak, if any further… Perhaps you’d be so good…?”
“Oh indeed, sir,” Sam said, heartily. Congratulations, man, he told himself, a sticky situation brought into dock. Next he’ll be giving brandy!
“In any way,” snapped Kaye, remembering his mood, “you owe me favours, you and Bentley, so don’t expect to get away too light. There is the matter of your jaunt in Kent, an ’all. The boatswain’s mate damn near got flogged for it, that saucy devil Eaton. Turned up as bold as brass and said the two young gents would vouch for him. I’d a damn good mind to knock him back to landman. I need a drink. Bob! Black Bob! Where is the bastard boy? And you — may go about your business, sir.”
*
The confrontation with the homeward-bounders, when it finally occurred, had all the makings of a Navy knockabout, hallmarked Richard Kaye. Indeed, the two midshipmen might have found it funny except that it cost one sailor’s life, that of Shockhead Eaton, whom they valued rather highly. They took only seven men, three of whom were later released because of their protections, and it was several days after the engagement before they limped back to London under jury rig.
The first day out they made good time, and by nightfall were skating down the Kentish coast, from north to south. They took in sail when it was dark, as there was traffic as always in the Downs, and in any way they did not want to miss their target, whose position they knew only vaguely. Four ships was Kaye’s word, although it seemed to Kershaw impossible they would stay bunched so close to home, so close to ranging Press tenders. He stood with Sam and Will as Gunning gave the orders to snug down, all three of them marvelling at the level of his inebriation.
“It’s his second day,” the strange spy told them, in his quiet voice. “They last from three to five, they tell me, then he lies down like a corpse till he’s recovered, and doesn’t touch another glug for days or weeks. Worst is, it’s catching. We’ll see some sailors dropping from the yards I shouldn’t wonder.”
It was catching with the Navy men as well, not just the owner/master’s crew. There was an element of competition as to who could hold their liquor best, and a greater one as to how they should obtain it, well beyond the daily ration. Even on his uncle’s ship, where things were tightly regulated, Will had been aware that that ration was enough to knock out weaker-headed men, while others hoa
rded it for use as bribes or currency. On Slack Dickie’s ship, with men often ashore, or rummaging and stealing from vessels stopped and searched, there was rarely any shortage. Tonight it was apparent that there was a general spree.
“Should we warn Lieutenant Kaye?” said Will, but tentatively, for fear that they would mock at him. The captain had remained below since dinner, when he too had been drinking heavy. But they did not mock, they shared in his concern.
“No point,” said Kershaw, with unusual brusqueness. “I think Black Bob’s the target of his thoughts tonight, he’ll not brook interruption. Thank God it is a quiet night, that’s all. By morning maybe, most will have sobered up sufficiently. I’ll do first turn on watch, shall I?”
The wind had died down, as it often did at nightfall with high glass, and the air grew very chill. The stars were showing in an almost cloudless sky, and the sea was velvet black, rolling but unbroken. Soon the moon was due to rise, almost full.
“I’m not for my bed yet,” said Sam. “Jesu, what a rum life, this life upon the sea. Silence, beauty, and a drunken rabble. And over there, not much above ten or fifteen leagues or so, the enemy. I wonder if they conduct things so, or different. Have you had many dealings with them, Mr Kershaw?”
The three of them stood on the quarterdeck alone. Gunning had overseen the lashing of the wheel, then wandered forward with the erstwhile helmsman towards the noise of revelling. He had thrown a glance at them, a type of challenge, that they should care, or dare, to question his shipkeeping. But they were happier alone, in charge of her. For some time, Kershaw was disinclined to answer.
