by Mary Wine
She longed to stretch her legs and escape the silence.
Oh, the ship was full of noise, from the slap of the sails to the men whistling while they worked to maintain the vessel, but they went to great lengths to avoid conversations with her. She was sick unto death of remembering it was for her own good.
The air was much warmer now, her bonnet slowly driving her insane with how much heat it
trapped against her head. Her tiny cabin didn't offer any relief. She might remove her gloves and bonnet below deck, but there was not even a tiny porthole to let air into the space she'd been allotted. Once the sun rose and began shining on the side of the ship, the space became an oven.
She'd spent a few hours standing at the bottom of the stairs that led up to her deck space because it was shaded and the wind blew down. Three weeks out of port, the air had changed and the
difference was dramatic. Even after having two weeks to adjust to it, she found it stifling.
The heat drove her down the steps before they reached the dock. Sweat coated her beneath the layers of her dress. She felt dank and smelly, and truthfully if she ever laid eyes on another bowl of porridge, it would be too soon. It was now far simpler to understand why sailors deserted ship in foreign ports. It was hunger which drove them to break their pledges.
"Water for you, ma'am. It's fresh water too. With land sighted, we can use up the stores."
Being spoken too was slightly shocking. The lieutenant appeared with a smile on his lips and a large copper cooking kettle in his hands.
"I told the cook to leave it cool since you're unaccustomed to the climate."
"Thank you."
Her skin began begging for a bit of that water. There had been naught but salt water for cleaning with and it left a gritty feeling behind.
The few times it had rained, the crew took to the decks to bathe under the sails, but she had been strictly imprisoned inside her cabin. Listening to the sound of fresh-water rain hitting the sails above her was a torment she was sure she would recall to her dying day.
The lieutenant shouldered his way past the slim planks that made up the door to her cabin. He left the pot on the floor because it was deep and would likely topple right off the short stool she had.
She pushed the door shut and slid the iron bolt to secure it. Her bonnet ended up on her bed in record time. Removing her gloves took longer because the fabric stuck to her sweaty fingers. She peeled them off, one fingertip at a time. The bodice of her dress followed. The ties on the front of her corset were tempting, but she resisted the urge to escape from the contraption. The problem with freedom was that once tasted, returning to prison was so much harder. She couldn't greet Adam Mordaunt in her chemise after all, even if the climate made her long to.
But the copper kettle held at least three gallons of water, and she was going to stick her head in it.
However ungraceful that might be. Picking up the slim bar of soap she still had and a small cup, she placed them on the floor where she might reach them. The cabin was growing hotter. She
pulled the pins from her hair and worked the braids loose quickly. Washing would serve little purpose, if she was sweating again.
With her head in the kettle, using the cup to pour water over her hair was awkward. Her
shoulders strained but she persisted until every strand was wet. The soap took an effort to lather but she worked it into her scalp to wash away weeks of grime. When she returned to using the cup, a soft sigh of relief left her lips. The water rinsed everything away, leaving her skin tingling.
She would never take the feeling of clean skin for granted again.
With her face and neck so clean, the chemise suddenly annoyed her past her endurance. She
could not bear it another moment. Standing up, she striped every last stitch of clothing off.
Modesty be damned, she was tired of stinking.
Three gallons of water had never brought such relief before. Lorena used it on every inch of her skin before nodding in satisfaction. She pushed the kettle into the corner of the cabin before struggling to lift the heavy lid of her trunk. Searching among the paper-wrapped bundles, she found a new chemise, stockings and corset. Her dress would have to do because the ones in the trunk would be wrinkled terribly from five weeks.
She dried her hair on her soiled chemise before slipping into the fresh clothing. Even if she detested the stiffly boned corset, at least the fashion was to have laces in the back and front.
It granted her a measure of control she liked. Her nose wrinkled when she lifted her dress off the bed, but there was no help for it. She raised it above her head and let it slither down into place over her new undergarments. Each button made her hotter when she closed it. But braiding her hair and pinning it back up brought a measure of relief. Never mind that it was still wet, the cabin was becoming unbearable.
Returning to the deck, she stared at the island. They were much closer now. Captain Connell was shouting orders and his men scurried to obey. Gleaming white walls covered the tip of the island.
She could see the flags of the British navy fluttering in the morning breeze. An explosion rent the air as a single cannon fired over them, the ball falling into the ocean.
The men sent up a cheer.
"You'll be happy to hear that the fort has granted us permission to approach, Miss St. John."
Captain Connell had turned to face her. He wore a pleased expression. "Quite soon you will be ashore."
And out of my hands...
She finished the sentence for him. The silence from him and his officers proved how little liking the man had for taking on the honor of bringing her to Bermuda.
"How delightful."
How dishonest common courtesies really are.
He said one thing and she answered back, all the while neither of them spoke the truth. It was exhausting when you thought about it. Her entire life had been about putting on a good show. It was the truth she was an experienced actress.
The hope she'd kindled dimmed. Mordaunt was an officer and no doubt would expect her to
continue on with this playacting of proper ness.
But there was nothing except to go forward. Even with the prospects dim. She didn't fight to hold on to her hope after all, her life had always been a struggle to make do. You would think she was accustomed to it. And still something inside her yearned for more. It burned in spite of the years of adjusting and bending. She hungered for something so badly but didn't even know what it was she craved.
Commissioner Adam Mordaunt did not remove his bicorn hat when they met. The man stood on
the green lawn that surrounded his house while she climbed the hill toward him. His dark eyes surveyed her without emotion. He was dressed as if he were standing in England, from the silk necktie to the white gloves on his hands. He wore both vest and overcoat, every button gleaming from a recent polish. His officers were lined up behind him, looking just as neat and formal.
Lorena stopped several feet in front of him. No one spoke, only the wind made sound. She stood sandwiched between them. It sent an odd tingle down her neck. Mordant didn't greet her. Instead the man began at her face and raked her with his gaze all the way to her hem. It was no hidden look either. He seemed confident in his right to look her over like a mare and did it while everyone waited.
"Turn."
"Excuse me?"
His expression darkened. "I instructed you to turn. All the way around, so I may have a look at the rest of you. Remove that bonnet first. Turn slowly."
His tone implied he expected obedience. The officers standing behind him didn't appear surprise by his command either. Nor by his public display of her. Her gaze cut from side to side and her temper sizzled. Men were watching them from the walls and from their positions at the gates.
Boys carrying water to the stables walked at a toddler's pace while they attempted to view the spectacle.
Her patience evaporated in a cloud of steam no doubt caused by how hot h
er temper was. She
clasped her gloved hands tightly together and held her chin steady.
"I shall not make a public display of myself right here in the middle of the green." Her sense of modesty didn't send her denial out, it was pure desire to refuse him.
One dark eyebrow rose. Only a fraction of an inch. But frowns appeared on the men behind him, hinting that her words were unwise.
She did not care.
Adam stepped forward, his gaze focused on her. Lorena stood her ground even when she had to lift her chin to keep eye contact with him.
"Modesty is well placed in a wife." He lifted one finger in front of her face. "However, disobedience is not."
He struck her, his open hand connecting with the side of her face. His glove prevented it from popping but he put enough strength into the blow to send her staggering away from him. Pain exploded inside her head, making her gasp for a deep breath or pass out from the blinding agony.
Catching herself, Lorena returned to her stiff posture. She would not whimper.
Adam studied her with a mocking expression. "You took that better than I would have expected.
At least I won't have the chore of whipping immaturity out of you. That much is to be
commended." He reached up to finger his chin. "My command here is absolute, madam. This fort runs on military discipline and there is no quarter extended to any soul residing behind the sanctuary of these walls. You shall follow my commands without a quibble."
He lifted his attention from her for a moment. "Thank you, Captain Connell, for escorting my bride. You may return to the dock to oversee the provisions for your ship."
"Thank you, Commissioner."
Captain Connell turned with a sharp motion, his officers following suit. They marched down the path without a single glance back.
"As for you, Miss. St. John, today is an excellent time for you to taste what it is like to suffer without the comforts which only come with obedience to my will." He raised his voice, ensuring it carried well. "You shall be barred from the commissioner's house for your defiance, and no one shall aid you in any way. You may present yourself in this same place at sunset and obey me, or I will have you locked in a cell for the night. You will remain inside the walls, madam."
He turned his back on her. Every man with him followed him up to the grand house sitting on the top of the rise. It was two stories, with a wide balcony running completely around it.
Floor-to-ceiling doors were open all along the balcony. It was a grand home but she would rather die than step foot into it.
Adam Mordaunt climbed the stairs and disappeared from sight. Noises began to fill the yard once more. Sounds came from a blacksmith and conversation began to drift on the morning air.
Well then, she would just find something to do. The sting left from his blow was far better company in her opinion.
Plenty of pairs of eyes watched her, but none of them appeared surprised by her treatment.
Everyone was working, although many of them glanced up to stare at her while their hands
slowed. She walked without knowing her destination. Moving along the green inner yard and up onto one of the walls. The wind whipped at her skirt, but it was cool coming in off the open sea.
The water was a deep azure and the sand a shimmering white.
It was paradise, but one that included a demon.
From the top of the wall, she could see the entire harbor, but new sounds came from the section of uncompleted walls beyond the fort itself.
The snap of a leather whip and the harsh grunts of men. Long lines of them toiled in the
scorching heat of the tropical sun. The pounding of chisels mixed with the groans of hard
physical labour. An entire army of them worked to bring new blocks to the growing wall. Groups of them were shackled together but they walked in unison, proving that the chains were a
normalcy for them. The ones working high up on the cliffs with chisels didn't wear chains but suffered in the full heat of the blazing sun. Bobbing in the harbor were old ships which had roofs built right over their decks. Godford had been correct, the law had no mercy. Many of the
convicts feeling the bite of the whip were guilty of little more than theft. But the House of Lords deemed any fall from grace a reason to be shipped away from Britain. More than one young lad learned that lesson when his shackles were locked around his ankles.
Horror clogged her throat. Her intended groom was little better than a slave master. Men in uniform wielded the whips. They stood above the lines of men, raising their weapons over their shoulders before striking the bent backs of their charges.
Her flesh crawled. Revulsion surged through her so thickly, she almost retched. The mere
suggestion that Adam Mordaunt might touch her was horrific. Right before her eyes was a
testimony to how he treated his fellow man. A man such as him would use her body to please his appetites and then discard her the moment he was satisfied. She would never be anything more than a pet. Although she feared his dog might fare better than she.
St. John shipping. How had her father's dream turned into something that dropped her into such a deplorable situation? Clearly Mordaunt craved her dowry more than the wife which came along with it.
Not that his opinion was an uncommon one.
Depression caught her in its grip and she refused to struggle against it any longer. Walking along the wall, she sank into her despair, for at least it drowned out the stares of pity being cast her way.
Many were soldiers and she might have pitied them if she had any thoughts to spare. Their faces were red from the sun and their collars stained with perspiration due to their thick English uniforms. But not a single button was open, even in the tropical heat. It was a horrible sign of what would be expected of her as well.
She didn't cry. There were no tears for the demon who thought he was her master. No, her eyes remained dry. Many of her history lessons suddenly took on greater meaning. She was not the first bride to prefer the elements to her intended groom.
She refused to care and she refused to bend.
Her feet ached before sunset. Penned up on ship, her calves were weak. Standing in the shade, Lorena looked up toward the house but her tormenter had yet to appear. Well, she would not
meekly await him. Not yet anyway. Her belly rumbled but it was her thirst that threatened to buckle her resolve. Her tongue felt like a dry piece of wool inside her mouth. The surface of her lips was chapped from the ocean wind. Even the skin on her face felt tight and hot. No one could endure without water very long. Even the men working on the walls had been given a measure of it. From her place
on top of the wall, she'd watched women haul buckets among the laborers. They dipped long—
handled ladles into their buckets and lifted a serving of water to the men's lips. They drank while they worked, never stopping. The women made their way among them while the British wielded
their whips over it all.
To get water, she would have to become one of them. Her pride refused but the urge to live
battled against it. Yet her options were few. Even taking herself off to work in a filthy factory was no longer open to her. Britain was five weeks across the ocean and she had no silver coin for passage. There was only thirst or grovelling left. No wonder the inhabitants of the inner fort looked at her with pity. They had already had their pride broken and they knew what her fate was going to be. Eventually, they would become her comrades.
"There's fresh water down by the supply gate."
So used to being ignored, she jumped when he spoke to her. Whoever the man was, he didn't
look at her. He had a small barrel in his hands and was carrying it down another of the stone paths which crisscrossed the inner yard. His steps were slow, much slower than he looked
capable of. But he was hunched over, his large frame dropping over his load. Just another pitiful example of how ill-treated the men were. A large man
like him was most likely being starved on meager food rations. It wouldn't take long for his broad shoulders to be reduced to skin and bones.
"Watch me but don't follow too closely. The provisions are stacked up there, near the water gate..."
The last few words were difficult to hear because he was moving away. But the mere suggestion of water sharpened her senses. Casting a quick look back at the green, she found it still empty.
Setting off in the direction
he'd gone, Lorena went searching for water. She'd walked around the walls several times looking for where the water was brought into the fort but had failed to discover it.
At the lowest spot of the fort, there were two water gates. They weren't very large, only sufficient to allow smaller boats in. At low tide, the retaining walls were dry but now water lapped at them, filling the small dug-out area. A row of stone buildings sat facing it and another alongside it. She walked between them, losing sight of the commissioner's house and the green.
With the light rapidly fading, she could hear the guards herding the labourers toward the hulks.
The darkness didn't bother her. Let Mordaunt search for her. If she ended the day locked in a cell tonight, she would not be the only one. Laying her head on a soft pillow in the commissioner's house seemed ill suited to the surroundings. There was too much suffering
to ignore. It felt as though she was losing her grip on her own humanity to wallow in comforts while men were locked like animals inside those hulks. Joining them would not help, but her mind rebelled against bending to the man responsible for it all. There could be discipline without cruelty, she was certain of it.
It was cooler by the water gates, the ocean breeze blowing in to stroke her burning cheeks. She could smell the water, both salt and fresh. Large barrels were lined up on the far side of the tiny harbor. A hoist was attached to the stone wall that held the water back. Below rowboats bobbed gently in the current. A rope was strung through an iron wheel and it glistened even in the growing darkness. That was the well. The barrels were filled here and rowed out to the ships waiting in the main harbor. Moving toward the rope, Lorena tugged her gloves off. The line was still wet, telling her the workers had recently quit for the night.
