Thief Taker

by Camille Oster

  There was blood in his eye and he couldn't see right, signaling that he might have a concussion. Trying to focus, he zeroed in on his opponent, the crowd yelling raucously around him. Taking another hit as he delivered one, he landed face first in the muck again. The man hit like a mule kicked. Everything in his body screamed for him to stay down, but he refused. He could barely stand anymore, but he pushed himself up, hoping his knees would hold. He staggered slightly, his body leaning to the right, pulling him off balance.

  Drawing his fist up, he braced himself for the next round. "Just go down, man," the barrel of a man said, whose chest was covered in blood. At least he was holding his own—somewhat. As this was a boxing match, he couldn't deploy many of the tricks he had to down opponents. Rowan was never going to win this, but it served to sharpen his mind through the alcohol that choked his bloodstream. If he wasn't so damned drunk, he could probably do a much better job. Then again, if he wasn't completely inebriated, he wouldn't be in this damned ring, getting his lights punched out.

  The next hit got him straight in the face, knocking him down. Again he felt the world come up and smack the back of his head. On his back now, he stared up at the gaslights swimming above him. All he tasted was blood, metallic and tangy, everywhere. The world moved unnaturally and it was finally time to give in. Sweet blackness encroached, ready to claim him and he slipped into its welcoming embrace, where the pain stopped and he felt nothing.

  Cold shock seared through him, shaking him out of unconsciousness. Everything hurt and he didn't know where he was, but he was soaking wet and a man stood over him with an empty bucket. Panic set in for a moment like it did when he didn't know what was going on—it usually meant something bad was about to happen. Sitting up, his head screamed. His eyes wanted to close again and return to the nothingness he had come from.

  Forcing his sore, swollen eyelids open, he looked around. The crowd was screaming again and the distinct smack of fists on body was heard from the ring. He wasn't sure how he'd ended up in this place, but he'd been in the ring. His face hurt, his body hurt and his hands were raw. He'd been fighting alright.

  "Up you go, sunshine," said a craggy man with a beard and stains all over his shirt. Someone was lifting his arm and nausea hit him as he tried to stand. "Walk if off; you'll come right. Quite a beating you took."

  Rowan was so tired, he couldn't move. "Drink," he said.

  "Adamant on more punishment, are you?"

  Rowan stared at him viciously, but a glass was put in front of him. "This'll sort you," the man said. Rowan downed the drink and stared at the ring where he could only see shifting movement through the crowd. Looking around he noticed one of the seediest places in Whitefriars, somewhere he usually only came seeking someone, but tonight he'd ended up here, trying his luck in the ring. Ten pound was available to the man who conquered Big Olof, but unlike most, Rowan wasn't here in some desperate hope of snatching the ten pounds. Desperate men came here, and without really knowing why, he felt desperate.

  He'd started the night in one of the gin palaces and it had gone downhill fairly quickly. He only remembered snatches of it.

  "You alright, love?" a woman said to him, dressed in tatty silks. Clearly a prostitute looking for a client. Everything was young about her except her eyes—she'd seen everything there was to see in this world. He felt that way too most times.

  "Fine," he said.

  "I'll take you home if you like."

  "Not ready to go yet.”

  "Well, you let me know if you change your mind," she said, walking off, swinging her hips so her skirts swayed.

  Leaning over, he put his face in his hands, but had to look up as he swayed disturbingly when he looked down. He was still drunk, now with a concussion, unable to move. Lying down on the bench he'd somehow ended up on, he closed his eyes, listening to the crowd screaming in their blood-thirst. His wallet was likely long gone and he'd lose his boots in a minute, but he didn't care.

  Rowan woke on the street, filthy and bloody, and shirtless. Street life moved around him, as he lay on a pile of … husks of some kind, having been taken out and left on the street. His head screamed at him as he sat up. Turning his hands over, he inspected the damage to his knuckles, which were raw and bloody. His teeth were loose, but they were all there, which was something to be grateful for.

  Getting up, he felt the street muck seep through his toes, but he really couldn't get filthier. As expected, his boots were gone, scavenged by someone to wear or sell. His head pounded as he walked along, wishing he could get a coffee, but even if he had money, they wouldn't let him in. Feeling down his side, he found the broken rib, or maybe two, that were giving him trouble.

  Truly, he had punished himself last night, but he'd found he couldn't sit still, and the urge was still there, but he wasn't quite as cowardly in the harsh light of day—seeking escape from the thoughts that plagued him.

  His mind traveled back to the trial, where she had stood in her shaking pride, owning up to what she'd done. Maybe he wouldn't be so cut up if she'd tried to deny it, attempting to hide her character and misdeeds, but she hadn't even tried. Transportation. He hoped it would be something a bit more lenient, taking into account her station in society—former station.

  She had no idea what she was in for—not that he really did either, but he'd heard. She'd be put to hard, tedious work—back-breaking work from what he knew, and it was so ill suited to her. Her pride had burnt like a shining beacon, uncompromising—it was a character trait that would give her trouble where she was going.

  People didn't generally come back. It was rare that anyone did—just the passage back was out of reach for most, and it would probably be for her too as her family where highly motivated to cut her off—something she supported.

  Returning home, he cleaned himself off. His whole abdomen was covered in bruises and a bone in his hand was broken. All in all, he had gotten away lightly. It wasn't often he wallowed in the seedier side of street entertainment, but for some reason, last night, he'd needed to. He wasn't stupid enough not to know why—her. The blow she received feed deep guilt in him. He had done this to her. He had caught her. She would have been caught anyway, but last night, his heart or mind wouldn't hear a bar of it. The worst of it was that he knew she was alone now. It might not be so bad for that fact.

  Dressing again, he made his way down to the coffee house, where they were used to seeing him in every state of injury, but normally it was part of his job, rather than the more self-inflicted activities he'd pursued last night. Feeling along his cheekbones for fractures, he waited for the coffee to be served.

  He should be turning his attention to the Allerson case, but he wasn't quite able to clear his mind just yet, knowing his influence and reach could not protect her now. She was about to be moved to one of the hulks in the Thames where prisoners awaited transportation—packed in like rats, chained in the hull of the ship in case someone made a bid for freedom, trying their luck with the river.

  After leaving the coffee house, still feeling too seedy to eat, he walked over to the market. He understood why her family could not acknowledge her, but it also meant that she wasn't given the things she needed. He bought her cutlery, and a bowl, needle and thread, cotton, soap, matches and three candles and a louse comb. She probably didn't even know what a louse comb was, but she was about to spend months living on the pockets of women who needed one. He also bought two books, a shift and a blanket, shoving all of it into a pillowcase. At least she had sturdy shoes.

  Leaving the market, he walked toward Newgate. Technically, he had no reason to see her, or any reason to provide these things for her, but unlike most others being transported, she had no one else who would bring these things to her. Most carried the entire sum of their meager belongings with them, but she'd have no use for ball gowns, or riding jackets, parasols, whatever else women of quality surrounded themselves with.

  Maybe he wouldn't feel to utterly miserable if he knew she was suited for
what was about to happen to her, knowing she would be at the mercy of women who were hardened by life on the streets. Everyone would know what she was and she had little defense against women who would sell their mothers for a bit of gin.

  As expected, she wasn't in the cell anymore, instead in a temporary cell waiting to be moved. After asking, he was directed to one of the large cells on the ground floor, where bars encircled a space full of women having been handed the same fate as her. He spotted her in the back, leaning against the wall.

  "Hello, darling," one of the women said, leaning over to show him exactly how low cut her dress was. He ignored her and she took the message. Tentatively, Miss Woodford stepped forward, a chain hanging between her wrists. "I brought you some things you'll need," he said, pushing the pillow case through the bar.

  "Thank you," she said. "You didn't need to."

  "You will need these things."

  "I am grateful." She smiled and looked up at him. Some of her confidence had been knocked, but the burning pride was still there. "What happened to you?" she asked, concern lacing her voice as she studied his face. Reaching through the bars she touched just under his cheek where he knew an angry bruise raged. He flinched, but it wasn't the pain.

  "Just part of the job," he lied. She looked dismayed as she studied his face, her brow drawn tight into a frown. "It is nothing," he said. "Looks worse than it is. Will clear up in a day or two."

  She didn't believe him, but he did get hurt in the course of his work all the time. Criminals would do anything to get away, and he'd been on the blunt end of that aim more than once. Even she had hit him to try to escape him.

  "I am about to be moved, I have been told," she finally said, retreating her hand to clasp the bar between them.

  "Yes," he confirmed.

  "To wait until the ship arrives in a week."

  He stepped closer to the bars so he could see her better. She was still so beautiful, even after the frightening things she'd gone through.

  "A great adventure," she said brightly.

  "Miss Woodford," he started, thinking she didn't understand, but she dropped her gaze to the floor and he knew she realized full well that this would be a grueling experience. Who was he to argue if she tried to make light of it. Before he knew what he was doing, he reached in and stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb, feeling her soft skin, and she looked up at him, not pulling away from it.

  "I'm sorry we didn't meet under better circumstances," she said.

  "There weren't any other circumstances in which we would meet."

  "That's probably true," she smiled.

  "Seven years will pass," he said. "You can come back."

  "Of course," she said, with an awkward nod. She wasn't coming back; he could see it in her eyes. She had nothing to come back to. She would be a threat to her sister and her own society would never accept her again. He felt a fleeting, burning emotion, but couldn't identify what it was.

  He wanted the bars to be gone, and the audience, so he could embrace her. It was what he truly wanted, to embrace her and tell her it would all be fine, but he couldn't do either, because it wasn't his right and it wasn't true. This might break her, and there was nothing he could to about it. He chided himself for caring—normally he was good at keeping his heart cold to the fate of the people he caught, but she had snuck inside his armor and reached his heart—and he was suffering for it.

  "They're going to move us soon," she said. "You should go. Thank you again for this," she said, holding up the pillowcase she had clasped in her hands. "Goodbye, Mr. Cox."

  "Goodbye, Miss Woodford." There was so much more he wanted to say, but none of it was appropriate in these circumstances. She was a criminal, judged and sentenced, and he was an investigator who had caught her. None of the things he wanted to say fit into that paradigm, so he turned and left, refusing looking back.

  Chapter 26:

  * * *

  Serephina shifted, moving to alleviate the sore spots developing from sitting so long in the dark, dusty hull of the ship they'd been taken to. She was crouched at the edge, against the curving side, smelling the tar and the pungent odor of so many unwashed bodies. To her own displeasure, she was one of them. They hadn't gone anywhere yet, but they had been moved to this ship where they were all kept chained together, and fed out of a bucket as one of the soldiers would walk along, scooping broth to every out-held bowl. The bowl and cutlery Mr. Cox had given her had truly come in handy.

  Every time she moved, the person next to her felt it, but there was enough room to lie down, and she did intermittently, staring at the ceiling of the deck above, pretending she was anywhere else.

  Lowering her head to her knees, she closed her eyes, still not quite believing that this was her life now. The one she'd had was over and a new one was starting. That was how she saw it—a distinct life that had nothing to do with the first. She just hoped that there would be something tolerable in this new life.

  A soldier in white breeches and a red coat, stepped down the ladder that led down the hull and the pervasive chatting of the women stopped as everyone turned to watch him as he carried a pail of drinking water, which he placed in the middle of the space.

  "Careful now. Don't wanna trip," one of the women said and the others laughed. The soldier glared with dismay and retreated, obviously uncomfortable under the scrutiny of a large group of women. They only laughed more when he disappeared up the steps that provided the only light in the space. This was their territory, and while they may be chained here, they resented the soldiers coming into their space.

  The women gave her a wide berth, not really knowing how to treat her. She definitely wasn't one of them, and they seemed to fall into fast friendships quickly, chatting about their lives and injustices. So far, she hadn't felt unsafe, but from watching and listening, she observed that these women could be as forthright and aggressive as men.

  "I'm from Dorset," the girl next to her said. The girl had been just as quiet and withdrawn as Serephina. "My name is Doreen."

  "Serephina."

  The conversation stifled again, but it was the first she had spoken since Mr. Cox had left her. Suddenly, the darkness that had been threatening loomed underneath her, offering to swallow her up. Desperately, she tried to hang onto her belief that the greater good of this was worth it—Millie was safe. She had sacrificed her life, but she was still alive, left with a new one.

  Doreen started crying and it was even harder to keep the threatening despair from engulfing her, but perhaps she was only fooling herself.

  Even though this was scary, she had no regrets, she repeated to herself. It was a harsh price and she would not baulk now that it came time to pay it. Reaching out, she stroked along Doreen's arm.

  "They're going to feed us to the cannibals," Doreen sobbed.

  "What cannibals?"

  "The cannibals there—in Australia. The heathens."

  Serephina laughed—she couldn't help it. It was just such a silly notion.

  Another woman on the other side of Doreen groaned loudly. "There aren't any cannibals, you dumb cow."

  "I think someone has been feeding your fear with lies," Serephina said.

  "Oh, listen to you," the other woman said. "Very fancy. I thought they forgave people like you everything."

  "Not everything," Serephina responded without adding more. Dropping her head to her knees, she cut herself off from further conversation, which she suspected would only draw attention and serve her no good whatsoever.

  "So what you here for?" the woman demanded.

  "Leave her alone," Doreen said.

  "I'm just asking her questions."

  "Maybe she doesn't want to be asked?"

  "Too good for it?"

  By now the whole space had gone quiet, drawn by the grilling of the foreign bird in their midst.

  "I stole some jewelry," Serephina said, loud enough so everyone could hear.

  It was quiet for a moment, then everything returned to h
ow it had been. Some laughed.

  The challenging woman sniffed like she was judging Serephina's crimes. "Not too good for stealing then?"

  Ignoring the statement, Serephina shifted her head away, resting her cheekbone on her knee.

  "As dumb as mules, the pair of you," she continued.

  Serephina wasn't sure why she was dumb in this woman's book, but she didn't care.

  "Tart," Doreen grumbled.

  Serephina lost track of time, slept when she could. Her dreams were the most exciting thing in her life at the moment, and when she woke again, she wished she hadn't.

  Doreen was quiet too, although sometimes she spoke about her parents and the orchard she'd grown up on. She never spoke about the reason she was there and Serephina didn’t pry.

  Then the soldiers came and started unlocking the lengths of chain holding them together. "Time to go, ladies," one of them said. "Your ship awaits."

  Suddenly, Serephina felt incredibly nervous. They were about to sail, leave England and everything she knew. The adventure was beginning, she told herself, wishing she truly felt like it was an adventure. Right now, she only felt loss. She was yanked along when it was her chain's time to move.

  "Move along," one of the soldiers ordered and placed his hand on her shoulder, pushing her toward the stairway. The light was blinding after endless days in darkness, and she clutched her pillowcase with her belongings tightly to her as she was pulled by the chain. Her eyes adjusting, she looked up at the huge ship next to the smaller one they were on. There were ropes and masts everywhere in what looked like an impossible jumble. She wasn't sure how many sails it had, but it seemed to be many. It really was a beautiful ship and it would take them on the long voyage to Australia. A moment of sheer surrealism hit her. She was being transported to Australia, on this massive ship, to never return.

  Soldiers were standing in rows on either side of them, ensuring no one created trouble, yelling at them to move along like they were cattle, urged toward the steep walkway between the ships. The chained yanked her along, up the walkway and across the large deck toward a door leading down into the dark bowels of the ship.