by Barbara Dan
His temper was already touchy as gunpowder. It wouldn't take much to light his fuse. He and his men were still emotionally raw from yesterday's events. A young ensign had attempted escape during the guards' meal break. A guard had wandered off to the latrine, and Ensign Corcoran of the Leviathan chose in that desperate moment to make a run for it. Corky got past the first inner walls, only to be cut down by musket fire as he neared the outer gate. He fell, the first lead ball striking him in the chest. Dragged back into the yard, he was skewered by a half-dozen bayonets. Using the man's fate as a grizzly warning, the sergeant in charge had ordered the man's body to lie in plain view of the prisoners until sundown.
Eyes carefully averted, three hundred forty-six American prisoners had gone about their business, stoically refusing to react, no matter how provoked.
In a way, MacGregor was nearly as angry at the dead seaman as he was at his captors. Thanks to one prisoner's rash act, the guard had been doubled. Making a prison break would be well nigh impossible now.
The tower chimes on St. Paul's Church rang out. Ten-thirty. Bruce hunkered down next to his first mate, Zech Thomson, and pulled out a crude chess set made of wood scraps and tin. Marking the board on a stone slab, he and Zech prepared to pass the time.
Chapter Twenty
"Dear Lord!" Lydia exclaimed, upon reaching the inner yard, where most of the prisoners were confined during the day. "I had no idea it was this terrible!"
Andrew saw the official and a guard glance their way at her words. "Sister Lydia is very attuned to the lostness of men," he confided to their escort, and guided her past a group of gaunt Americans in ragged attire. "She sees into their souls and weeps."
Lydia picked up his cue. "Give me a handful of pamphlets, Father Andrew," she said in a good strong voice. "We must not lose a single soul."
She began handing out tracts, and surprisingly few were refused. Warming to her work, she walked around, smiling and greeting the men. She made inquiries as to their treatment and needs, all the while searching for Bruce. But he was nowhere to be seen. Oh, surely such a tall man would stand out among all these thin, unshaven men! Had she come so far, only to fail? She fought back tears. She mustn't break down. She and Andrew still had to get out in one piece. Where was Bruce?
A frail looking young man tugged on her hem. "Sister, could you write a letter for me?" His eyes were deep set in hollow sockets, the bones of his face prominent.
Lydia returned his pleading look with a rush of compassion. "Of course, I will," she said. "Wait here while I fetch pen and paper. I'll be right back." She glanced about. Andrew had writing materials on him. She ran across the compound and grasped his arm. "Andrew, I need to write a letter," she blurted out, forgetting to address him as a cleric.
"Sister Lydia, I'm busy confessing this man." Andrew nodded toward a large, powerfully built man crouched over a crude chess board.
Lydia held out her hand impatiently for paper. "Andrew, I need pen and ink, too. Hurry! I promised to write a letter." She failed to notice the signaling direction of Graham's eyes.
"As you wish, Sister Lydia." He handed her his writing kit. "Come back directly. I think we may need you here as well."
Tucking the box under her arm, Lydia started to turn away; but then she stopped in her tracks. Caught up in the real life drama around her, she cast a cursory glance at the man squatting at Andrew's feet. She saw filthy clothes, patched and crawling with vermin, she had no doubt. She took a step closer. He had a larger than average bone structure, and his black hair was long and unkempt.
Suddenly Lydia began to shake. She dropped the writing box and tracts, and clapped her hands over her mouth, fighting to stifle the cry of joy in her throat, lest she betray their entire mission. My God, Bruce, what have they done to you? You've lost so much weight.
Instantly Andrew had her by the arm, his grip so tight that she bit her cheek to keep from screaming. "Careful, Lydia," he warned in a tense whisper; then he resumed his best ministerial manner. "Here, Sister Lydia, how clumsy of me! Let me help you pick up your tracts."
Lydia felt faint, as he thrust the writing box and tracts into her arms. Bruce's head had come up during their exchange, and his dark eyes were burning holes, staring right through her.
Bruce sat on his haunches, frozen in shock. What the hell? This was no place for a woman. Yet there she stood, gawking at him like a damn school girl in love! By God, if she says one word, just one! he thought grimly, his fists clenched. She's going to get herself and a lot of good men lined up against the wall and shot!
The fury in his eyes was unmistakable. Yet somehow Lydia managed to see beyond his look of shocked surprise and rage. It mattered not that a frown marred his handsome brow. Or that he looked close to committing violence with his bare hands.
She saw only the man she loved: Bruce, the man who had become her great obsession. Even in the midst of challenging duties at home, he occupied her thoughts. And in the darkest hours of the night, he haunted her dreams and filled them with excitement.
Lydia returned his glare with a smile as radiant and warm as sunshine on a sparkling beach in the Caribbean. "I love you," she mouthed.
Bruce shook his head to clear his brain. My God, what's she doing here? he groaned.
Graham swung Lydia around and gave her a shove to get her moving. It took a real effort for her to stumble across the yard and take dictation. Her mind simply refused to leave Bruce. With a real effort she forced herself to focus on the dangerous game they were playing. They couldn't afford a single mishap. Somehow she took down a few lines for the boy's mother in Quincy, Massachusetts.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bruce get up. He shoved his chess pieces into his pocket and stalked off with Andrew to another part of the yard. Clearly he was less than overjoyed to see her.
"I'll see that your mother gets this," she assured the young man, as she hurriedly collected the letter and writing materials. "And I shall pray for you." She reached out and gently caressed his cheek. He felt so feverish . . . Then, saying goodbye, she reluctantly started back across the yard.
Andrew truly amazed her. Despite the pressure, he never once dropped his guard. Now he called her over and introduced her to her husband. "Sister Lydia, may I present Captain MacGregor? He's been here nearly two months. Captain, I suggest you read this tract carefully and consider your soul's salvation." This last was said for the benefit of a guard walking by.
Bruce glowered at them, looking very much the unrepentant sinner. "Graham, why in hell would you bring her into a slime pit like this?" he ground out through clenched teeth.
"Actually it was my idea," Lydia confessed, her lavender-blue eyes sparkling. "He's only helping. Don't you want to be 'saved,' Captain?" she asked pertly.
"Not by any woman," he said gruffly. "My God! Do you expect me to be overjoyed?"
"Joy comes with salvation," Graham reminded Bruce with a cryptic smile. He spied a guard loitering nearby, eavesdropping. "Surely salvation is no less valuable, just because a woman offers it?"
"Get the hell out of here, before I break both your arms," Bruce threatened darkly.
"Take this. Study it well." Andrew stuck what appeared to be a tract into MacGregor's pocket and looked him boldly in the eye. "Remember: Salvation—tonight." With that, he turned on his heel and stalked off to continue making his ministerial rounds with other prisoners.
Lydia stood in Bruce's shadow, smiling despite the happy butterflies doing pirouettes in her stomach. How she longed to give the handsome brute a hug, but perhaps his rotten mood served a good purpose. One kind word, and she might have betrayed them both.
"Well, go on," he urged. "We're through talking."
"Not until you say you love me," she whispered back.
"Love?" He snorted. "I'm in shock, and you speak of such tomfoolery!"
"Pretend you're praying," Lydia nervously grasped his hands. "Here, let's kneel together."
"Saucy baggage," he said so only she could hear
. Though furious, he got down on his knees with her. "I feel like a damned fool."
"No more than I. Now say you're glad to see me," she prompted, giving him a bewitching smile.
"Never mind that," he muttered. "I assume you two have hatched some plot to get me out? How do you propose to do it?"
"Read your pamphlet, dear. We have a ship in the harbor, ready to set sail. And your sailboat is hidden in a cove, just south of here. You'll escape tonight, going through town to the harbor. If anything goes wrong, you take the sailboat and meet up with the ship tomorrow morning."
"Even if you've got things covered on the outside, how do you expect to get me and my men past the guards?"
"We've got it all planned," she said in a furtive whisper. "In all likelihood, you won't see me tonight, Bruce, but Andrew and my brother Seth will be here at eight o'clock sharp."
Removing her hands from his grasp, she rose and made the sign of the cross over his head. "God be with you, sir," she said cheerfully and returned to distributing pamphlets.
"And with you, Sister," he called softly, watching her chat with a cluster of prisoners.
This cockeyed plan went against his better judgment, but what choice did he have? He sighed, shaking his head. It would be a miracle if they got out alive.
* * *
"Thank you, Captain Burton, for bringing my trunk ashore." Lydia stood in the hall downstairs, playacting in case anyone in the boarding house had big ears.
"Anything, just so me and my men can get back to fishing," Seth grumbled. Shouldering his way up the stairs and into her room on Water Street, he set down her trunk.
"Captain, please come in," Lydia said, still playing to any eavesdroppers. "I feel I'd be derelict in my Christian duty, if I didn't speak to you one more time about your eternal destiny."
She closed the door and grinned gleefully at her brother. The two conspirators hugged each other and did an impromptu jig.
"Did you get everything?" she whispered.
Seth nodded, grinning from ear to ear. "I did. I'll be busy helping Bruce and his men escape, but I wish I could see you in action, baby sister."
"I'll tell you all about it later." Lydia bent over the small trunk, fumbling with her key impatiently. "Help me out here, Seth."
He jimmied the lock and lifted the lid. "This has got to be your most daring stunt ever, Lydia. And you certainly pulled off some screamers as a kid! But just in case, I recruited a couple of ladies of the evening to give you a hand." He winked.
Lydia's mouth dropped. "Seth, can you trust them? I mean, it's a brilliant idea, but—"
"Those two doxies’ll do anything for money, and I paid 'em well, believe me."
"I only asked you to buy a bottle of whiskey and knock-out drops," she reminded him.
Seth chucked her under the chin. "Not mad at me, are you, sis?"
"No, but I don't want anything to go wrong, either."
"Nothing will. Trust me. How long do you think you'd last, tryin' to handle all three guards by yourself, even with knock-out drops?"
Lydia shuddered. "But I'll be carrying a pistol," she demurred.
Seth grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to look him in the eye. "Sis, these men are like a pack of wolves just waitin' to gobble you up. Alone, you wouldn't stand a chance."
"Seth, please never tell Bruce," she pleaded. "He would absolutely kill me."
"Lydia, don't worry! That's why I hired those two tarts. They're used to keepin' rough men in line."
She sighed. "Then all I do is serve them whiskey and keep them from, uh, misbehaving until the drug takes effect?"
"That's right." Seth checked the clock on the dresser. "Hey, I've got to go. Just make sure you get back to the Isobella, once the guards are out cold. We'll handle everything else."
Suddenly insecure, she trailed behind him to the door. "Seth, how many drops should I put in their drinks?"
He grinned at her naïveté. "Don't worry, sis. I already mixed it in the bottle. Just pour, and keep on pouring. They'll be sleeping like babies in seconds."
Lydia gave a sigh of relief. "That quick? Then I have nothing to worry about, do I?" She gave him a hug. "How can I ever thank you, Seth?"
Seth nodded toward the chest. "Wait till you see the gown I picked for you to wear."
She looked surprised. "But I thought I'd wear my own."
"Hey, brat, have you looked at yourself lately in the mirror? You're flowing over the top, and a mite thick around the middle."
"But I thought, just for tonight—"
"Trust me. Nobody will be able to take their eyes off your—er, finer features tonight. Those guards will be so bowled over, they'll never notice you're in a family way."
Lydia, stepping over to the chest, picked up a flashy bright red dress dripping with black lace. "Seth, what is this?" she asked in horror.
He laughed. "You want to dress for the occasion, don't you? You may think you're a convincing nun, but in that dress—" He broke off with an impudent grin and kissed his fingertips. "It will be your best performance yet!"
He banged the door closed behind him, leaving Lydia with the skimpy dress clutched to her bosom. I can't wear this, she thought, holding it up and viewing herself in the cheval mirror. It's cheap, vulgar, and totally— She glared at the door.
"That devil!" she exclaimed. "He's just daring me to wear this dreadful creation." She studied herself in the full-length glass and saw its possibilities. Never in the wildest of dreams would anyone who saw her enter the prison as a nun suspect that this cheap floozy and Sister Lydia were one and the same person!
She glanced hastily at the clock. Andrew and her brother would return at six. With less than an hour to prepare, she needed to get busy.
Closing the curtains—for nobody must ever know!—she removed her nun's habit and stripped down to her camisole and petticoats. She crossed to the chest again. Where was that pistol Seth promised her? She found a small caliber weapon, already primed and loaded. She laid it on the bed next to the Anglican Book of Common Prayer and checked to see what else the chest contained.
Black lace fripperies! What was Seth thinking! She regarded the indecent, flimsy garments with a curled lip. Only a very wicked, depraved woman would wear such clothing, she told herself. She picked up a pair of black stockings between thumb and forefinger. She carried the tawdry see-through undergarments over to the bed and sat on the edge.
Dress the part, hm? Who said she had to dress from the skin out in a harlot's outfit? The guards would be unconscious in less than one minute.
What if Seth was mistaken?
Still, Seth seemed to know about such things. Look at the life he had lived.
Still, trying them on wouldn't hurt. Lydia slipped on the black lace mesh stockings and fastened them with the red and black ribboned garters. She twisted this way and that, viewing her legs in the mirror and let out a sigh of relief, for despite her waist's increasing girth, she still had shapely calves and ankles.
Not bad, she told herself. But the stockings looked out of place with her prim white camisole and stiffly starched petticoats. Perhaps Seth was right. She decided there was only one way to find out. She stripped completely and viewed her round little belly and ripe swollen breasts. With her clothes on, she could hide her stomach, but naked? Not a chance!
Lydia drew on the sheer undergarments. She felt a little shocked to see her own wicked image staring back at her from the glass. It was a good thing Bruce would never see her like this! He would divorce her for sure.
Still, she did feel secretly naughty as she postured before the mirror, fluffing her long silver-blond curls about her shoulders. She practiced winking lewdly and thrust one hip to the side. To fool the guards tonight, she needed to practice behaving like a wanton.
Testing out her new role, she walked with a wiggle. Too much, she decided. Tossing her luxurious mane, Lydia tilted her head this way and that, trying for the perfect seductive look.
Ah, yes! she thought,
warming to the adventure ahead.
Hearing the tower clock chime, she stopped rehearsing and wriggled into the whore's dress, fastening it with trembling fingers. Seth must have forgotten her size, because it barely fit. She pushed her breasts up until everything was spilling over like ripe grapefruits.
"I could use a fichu," she muttered, tugging the lace up as far as it would go. Black lace and red and black tulle trailed off her shoulders, exposing her alabaster throat and bosom. Brushing her hair into soft curls, she pinched her cheeks, smoothed the skirt and took another critical look in the mirror.
I hope Bruce appreciates what I'm going through to rescue him, she thought, and then winced. Oh, but he must never, ever find out!
Suddenly she clapped a hand across her mouth. That brother of hers! If he wanted, Seth could blackmail her for the rest of her life. Dolt! she told herself, you're in for it now!
Lydia nearly lost her nerve completely, realizing how far out on a limb she had gone. All because she wanted Bruce. But would he want her if he ever discovered what she had done?
Hastily she threw the nun's robes and wimple over her dress. She kissed the crucifix for luck, hung it around her neck, then covered her hair with the white caplet and veil.
She tucked the pistol and whiskey bottle into the deep inside pockets of her robe. Grabbing her prayer book, she faced the door, waiting. She couldn't back out. Too many people were depending on her. The seconds ticked off on the wall clock like a time bomb. Lydia swallowed hard, knowing how a condemned criminal felt just before the drop.
Then quick footsteps came down the hall and stopped in front of her door. Followed by a soft knock.
"Sister Lydia," Andrew's voice carried through the door. "A dying man at the prison has been calling for you."
"Then we must go at once." She slipped into the hall, knowing she would never return for her clothing and the trunk.
