“Ruark, darling, I do believe you are accusing me of lying,” she drawled.
“Not lying, precisely, but there’s something you’re not telling me,” he insisted.
“Whatever makes you say such a thing to me, Ruark?”
“Because you’re not frantic with worry over her. If you had no idea where she might be, you would be mad with anxiety—filled with mental anguish, as I am, until you went out of your mind.”
Lil cast him an apprehensive little glance. “Ru, darling, sit down.” She patted the satin-covered love seat coaxingly as if she were about to divulge a confidence. She looked at his dark brows and thought he looked like Lucifer after his fall from grace. His black hair was in wild disarray from running his distraught fingers through it.
“I hoped I wouldn’t have to be the one to tell you this. I don’t want to hurt you, Ruark. I believe that Summer went off with your brother, Rory. I believe she is in love with him.”
A wail of anguish came from Helford’s throat which sounded like a wounded wolf. Lil wished with all her heart she had never told him, for he was plainly devastated by the news.
Summer had stopped living. She had stopped daydreaming, stopped wishing, even stopped thinking. She existed—barely. In her heart she knew she would never again know a moonlit night on the balcony overlooking the garden at Helford Hall. Ebony and her dawn ritual were lost to her forever. When she had first been imprisoned, she felt outrage at the injustice of it all, but since then she had killed; she had become unclean, evil. Her son would be better off without her, so it was only right that she had lost him.
She had lost her husband. She had lost her lover. She had lost her looks, her youth, her health. She no longer cared. She was numbed to passivity; frozen, encased in ice, impervious to any further pain or torment.
She was so thin, her wrists and ankles looked delicate enough to snap. Her clothes and skin were layered with so much dirt she was unrecognizable. Her hair had grown but the lank, greasy shags were now plastered down the back of her neck.
* * *
Under cover of darkness the Phantom slipped silently up the Solent, past the Isle of Wight, into Portsmouth Harbor. Prince Rupert, disguised as an ordinary seaman, disembarked and was soon swallowed up by a waiting carriage. Black Jack Flash had safely delivered him to France and returned him twice in the last month without one soul being the wiser. He was acting as proxy for his cousin King Charles in a secret matter, namely handling the transfer of money from Louis to Charles for favors rendered.
Rory Helford never lingered in a port. Before dawn his Phantom would be safely out of Portsmouth, tucked snugly in a hidden cove off the Isle of Wight. Though he never appeared to be in a hurry, he wasted no time returning to his ship. He knew immediately he was being followed and his hand slipped over the carved handle of his long knife to caress it intimately. Damn and blast the man, thought Rory. I hate to take life unnecessarily.
He was in black from head to foot and easily concealed himself by slipping behind an iron capstan. As the seaman stood glancing about in the dark, Rory stepped silently forward and wrapped his forearm about the man’s throat. His knife, palmed in his other hand, pricked into the man’s kidney. “Talk fast and make it good,” he threatened.
“Black Jack, it’s me, Gitan. I sailed with you once. I lost an arm, remember?”
Rory’s hand slipped down the man’s shoulder to feel the empty sleeve. “Turn about slowly,” he ordered, “so I can see your face.”
The swarthy Breton was indeed Gitan. Rory grinned. He could let him live. The only people he allowed to know his identity were those few who had sailed with him. “You need money, Gitan.” It wasn’t a question.
“That’s not why I’ve been watching for you,” he denied. Rory arched a black brow.
“It’s a woman. Four or five months back they brought in women prisoners on a ship from London. The soldiers arrested a woman right here on Portsmouth dock and shackled her to the others. She gave me a message for you. She said she was your woman.”
“Cat?” demanded Black Jack Flash.
“Aye, that’s the one.” Gitan nodded.
“Christ Almighty,” swore Rory, “so that’s why she seemed to drop from the face of the earth.” He slipped his knife back into its sheath. “Can the warden be bribed?” he asked.
Gitan shook his head emphatically.
“Is there a way I can get in?” Rory asked.
Gitan shook his head again. “There’s no way in and no way out except through death’s door.”
“You’ve earned yourself a bag of gold this night. Come aboard and tell me the whole tale again in minutest detail,” invited Rory.
He took the risk of staying in port, but after three visits to the prison, Rory Helford was convinced he would get absolutely nowhere. Bludwart would answer no questions, give no hints, take no bribes. Short of storming the stronghold with the entire crew of the Phantom, Rory had no way of helping Cat. Lord Ruark Helford, however, should be able to come up with some sort of plan which would allow him to walk in and at least try to assert his authority. A vile curse dropped from Rory’s lips. He was loath to leave Cat incarcerated for one more hour while he sailed to London, but he knew in his heart it was a job for Lord Helford and not Black Jack Flash.
Ruark was in danger of letting his anger and his impatience get the better of him. It was a platitude to say that knowing the fate of a loved one was better than being left wondering. In this case it simply wasn’t so. To think of his sweet, precious Summer in a prison cell, and worse, to think that she had been moldering there five months, was unendurable to him.
A knife was twisting inside his heart, the pain made more unbearable because of the great burden of guilt which threatened to crush him. If only Lil Rich wood’s suspicions had been correct. If only Summer had sailed off with Rory five months ago. Well, he wouldn’t enlighten her—wouldn’t inflict even a small part of the pain he was suffering on her. Somehow, someway, he would free her, and no one would ever know she had spent one shameful, degrading hour in an English prison.
He paced about the anteroom to the King’s closet like a caged animal. His body cried out for action, yet here he was trapped with all his excessive energy coiled tight within him. At last he saw the door open and Charles emerge and he schooled himself to patience.
Charles smiled at his friend. “All was accomplished with the precision of a well-oiled machine.”
Ruark looked at him blankly for a moment. Then he recalled he must be speaking of the covert operation involving Rory and Rupert. “I’m here about a totally unrelated matter,” he said with what he hoped was an affable grin. “The high magistrate in Hampshire has been indisposed for over a year and as a result there have been no trials in Southampton and Portsmouth. The prisons are bulging at the seams and I think I could do something to ease the backlog before I return to my own district.”
“Find a suitable replacement for the magistrate if you will. That is a ridiculous situation which should never have been allowed to go on this long. All the seaports are overcrowded, unspeakably evil and filled to the rafters with scoundrels who daily break the law, but they should not be incarcerated without trials.”
“Sire, all I need is a letter of authority.”
“See Cornwallis for that. I’ve appointed him head of the justice system. Apparently it stands in need of a damn good overhaul. He has some scheme under way which transports petty criminals to the Americas. Apparently there is a grievous shortage of laborers and a crying need for women in the colonies.”
“It sounds like the scheme has merit,” said Helford, his brain already at work on a scheme of his own.
“Makes more sense than letting them sit on their backsides, eating their heads off at my expense,” said Charles.
Ruark Helford lost no time visiting Cornwallis. He put it in such a way that he would assume the King had ordered him to Portsmouth. “Some women were shipped to prisons in other counties after the London fire
. That was five months since and they haven’t even been tried for their offenses.”
Cornwallis warned him. “The selection must be a careful one. We don’t want cutthroats and murderers overrunning our colonies, but I see no reason why women who were arrested for small debts or stealing bread to feed their children cannot be given a chance to help populate the New World. I’m still undecided about prostitutes. What do you think, Helford?” he asked, raising bushy eyebrows.
It was the closest Ruark had come to smiling since he’d learned the whereabouts of his wife. To think the fate of perhaps hundreds of ladies of the night rested with him. He considered the matter gravely, then said without the least hint of mockery, “Since men in the colonies are in need of women to warm their beds and make a harsh life more bearable, I think women who have loose morals would be welcomed with open arms.”
“Mmm. Man does not live by bread alone,” agreed Cornwallis, remembering many of his own irregular pleasures.
“Give me the necessary letter of authority and I’ll be off to Portsmouth. Which vessel will transport the women I select?” he pressed.
“Goddammit, Helford, you’re in a tearing hurry. Don’t you realize the wheels of justice grind slowly?”
“Well, now that the war’s over, I see no reason for the navy to sit about on their backsides eating their heads off,” he said, borrowing a phrase from the King.
“You’re right of course,” said Cornwallis, still smarting at navy men like Sandwich and Albermarle who had kept him in the background during the late nasty business with Holland. “I suppose I have full authority to pick and choose any vessels from the fleet I might need.”
“I don’t think there’s any question of it,” replied Helford smoothly. “How about the Neptune? I believe it’s riding at anchor in Portsmouth this very day, doing nothing more than gathering barnacles.” He picked the slow, cumbersome Neptune for its dearth of cannon.
“The Neptune you say?” asked Cornwallis, beginning to see the humorous side to Helford’s choice. “God’s flesh, that’s the ship they gave William Penn to command after he lost the Royal Charles. I don’t think our rigidly religious Penn will appreciate transporting a shipload of drabs.”
“On the contrary,” said Helford, “I don’t think we could put our women in safer hands.”
Lord Helford arrived at Portsmouth Prison with half a dozen young militiamen under his command. When he dismounted in the prison yard, he realized that for the first time in his life he knew real fear. His guts threatened to turn to jelly and he almost contemplated bolting. When he entered the building, he had to clench his jaw to keep his gorge from rising at the stench of humanity which oozed from the very stones. One glance at Bludwart made him assert total authority immediately. He flashed his legal letters signed by Cornwallis and sealed by the Crown and decided then and there he would give no further explanation of his actions.
Earlier in the day he had ordered the Neptune readied for its voyage to America and had curtly dismissed William Penn’s objections to transporting prisoners. He took over Bludwart’s office, throwing the man and his furnishings out until the room stood bare. He ordered his militiamen to scrub it down as if it had been the deck of his ship and bade them burn brimstone and saltpeter to disinfect the air.
One table was placed in the room to hold the great ledger of records. One immaculately uniformed militiaman presided over those records. When all was ready, he had all the women who were incarcerated brought before him. They numbered between fifty and sixty. As they filed in they were told to stand against the wall.
Lord Helford’s keen eyes searched each and every face as it entered the room. He had hardened himself to the fact that she would be changed. Try as he might, however, he could not accept that any one of these poor wretches was his wife. His man read out each name, and as the woman stepped forward the catalog of her crimes was read aloud.
Ruark Helford was well known for his hardness, his discipline, his strong belief in right and wrong, crime and punishment, but this day he felt nothing so much as pity for these women who had spent months in shame and degradation, suffering slow starvation in filth because of their sinful misbehavior. He felt shame, too, that the reason he experienced compassion now was because his beloved was one of them.
He felt panic rise within him. She was not here. Please God she had not died before he could save her. His distraught fingers went through his hair over and over in frustrated alarm. He took the ledger and scanned it distractedly. “Are there any names unaccounted for?” he demanded grimly.
The efficient militiaman had put a neat tick beside each woman’s name who had come forward. He had also ticked off the names of the deceased, who had a black line through their names. His finger went down the columns rapidly and he pointed out four names which were unaccounted for. The name St. Catherine jumped off the page. “Bludwart!” Ruark thundered, striding from the room. “There are four women I have not yet seen.”
The warden wrung his hands, opened his mouth, and closed it again.
“Well? Is this a dumbshow?” he demanded.
“Your lordship, they are vicious killers,” he babbled. “I’ve kept them confined, but they have even murdered one another. Originally there were six and a child, now there are but four.”
Ruark closed his eyes and prayed. “Please God, not this close only to find you have taken her.” When he opened his eyes, they bored into Bludwart’s. “Fetch them,” he croaked hoarsely.
He was again standing in the roomful of women when the four wraiths slipped through the door. His heart stopped beating and he momentarily died when he saw that Summer was not one of the women. Then suddenly his hard mask almost crumbled with the force of his rage as he recognized the exquisitely delicate cheekbones. Then the knife twisted in his heart as he saw that she would rather die than have him recognize her.
He cleared his throat to gain some measure of control over his voice and his emotions, then in a matter-of-face tone explained to the women the reason for his being there. When he mentioned America, when he spoke of freedom, he saw hope rekindle in their eyes where there had been no hope. His eyes slid over Summer and on to the next face with no slightest hint of recognition. “I hereby reduce every sentence in this room to transportation to America. The phantom of death has stalked you long enough. I charge all of you to henceforth abide strictly by the letter of the law. I charge you to become useful members of society. I charge you to watch out for the Phantom.” He turned his back upon the women, no longer able to look at her without breaking. He instructed his men to see that the women were fed a decent meal and bedded down with sufficient blankets. With his back still turned, he raised his voice over the whispered murmurs of the women. “Tomorrow you will all be bathed and disinfected and issued clean clothing before you board the Neptune.”
When she saw his ramrod back quit the room, Summer felt only relief. Thank God his eyes had not even flickered as they passed over her. She would never have been able to bear being humbled and humiliated by his revulsion. It was then that she realized her damnable pride was still intact. Prison hadn’t been able to destroy it, even though she had felt numb for the last months, thinking her pride had been destroyed forever. In her great relief at the prospect of escaping this horrific prison, her spirit and pride were restored.
The thought of going to America, however, filled her with such anguish, she didn’t know how she would bear it. It would prevent her from seeing Ryan again, but she must endure it because he was probably better off without her.
Something drove Ruark to see for himself the dungeon where she had endured half a year. He took a lantern and went below to the cellars. The stench down here was worse by a thousandfold. In one corner was a heap of something unspeakable which at one time must have been straw before it became fouled with blood and excrement. He recoiled instinctively from the open drain and the slop bucket, but more horrific to him than the putrescence was the mean size of the room in which she’d been ca
ged. Lord Ruark Helford slid down in a corner against the slimed stones, and the rats gathered curiously at the sound of his sobbing.
Captain William Penn had almost a hundred women aboard the Neptune. They took up over half of the hold space, which had been fitted with narrow, tiered bunks. Food and water supplies for the monthlong voyage took up the rest of the space. The women were not shackled, but they were only allowed up on deck during daylight hours, then locked below-decks at dusk.
Most of them had never been to sea and it frightened them enough to keep them huddled below, fighting off the misery of mal de mer. But if they had been given a choice between staying in England and sailing to America, there wasn’t one who would have chosen to remain behind.
Summer spent every moment that she could up on deck. She sat quietly in a corner, speaking to no one. It was like paradise simply to breathe in the clean fresh air of the wind and the sea. The iodine smell of tidewrack, the taste of salt on her lips, the sound of creaking timbers and the chain rattling through the hawse hole were music to her ears. She had not yet begun to speak or even think, but she had begun to feel.
When the Neptune sailed past the Isles of Scilly, she caught the fragrance of its flowers upon the sea breeze and realized with amazement that it was spring. Two days past the Scillies a murmur rippled through the ship that another vessel had been sighted. It flew a Union Jack, so Sir William Penn was not disturbed when it veered toward the Neptune, drawing close enough to exchange greetings. He was more than disturbed, however, when the sleek, well-armed vessel put a ball across his bow and ordered him to heave to.
“Clear the decks for action! Gun crew to stations!” bellowed Penn, but he knew it was too late. The colors she’d been flying had completely lured him into complacency, and as the Phantom came alongside and he saw the swarthy, grinning faces and noted with alarm the carronade guns capable of smashing through a three-foot-thick hull, he realized they were pirates.
The Pirate and the Pagan Page 49
