Thief Taker

by Camille Oster

  Looking over, she saw the large wheel used to steer the ship and the captain standing up on the rear deck, pacing, as his cargo was loaded. A plume of white in his hat danced in the breeze.

  She was moving toward the opening into the ship and had a frantic look around to see the banks of the Thames and her last look at her home. But she wasn't allowed a moment, she was pulled down into the bowels and would fall down the steps if she wasn't paying attention.

  The hold they were taken to was more spacious and they were wooden shelves and hammocks where Serephina anticipated they would sleep. It was also cleaner than the hulk—much newer too, she suspected.

  There were even two rough cut tables in the middle of the large space and some benches. There were also some open port holes up high, too small for anyone to fit through, but they provided air. It really was much more comfortable than where they'd come from and Serephina chuckled at how impressed she was at the amenities in this space, which she would in the past have seen as completely barbaric. It was amazing how quickly her perceptions had adjusted.

  A barred door locked them inside and soldiers went along and unlocked their manacles. Serephina sighed with relief when the weight came off her wrists, and she rubbed the bruised skin. Another mercy, she thought. They wouldn't be chained anymore, although it looked like they would be locked in.

  "Listen, you lot," one of the soldiers yelled. He had more decoration around his shoulders than the others, so Serephina expected him to be an officer of some sort. "There will be no fighting. You will keep this space clean. Anyone misbehaves, or gives my men trouble, we have a much nicer space for you down the keel," he threatened sarcastically. "You are responsible for you actions and will be held to account when we reach Sydney."

  Turning sharply on his heels, he left and retreated out the door, the other soldiers following him.

  "I guess we grab a bunk," Doreen said. The women moved to claim their spaces and it was clear that the expectation was that there were two to a bunk, of which there were three levels. "Top or bottom?"

  Serephina quickly considered the question. It looked like Doreen was willing to share a bunk with her, which was probably the best possible outcome. "Top, I think," Serephina said, thinking it would be safer as she would be out of the way and less accessible to anyone who meant her harm.

  Doreen climbed up the steps with her satchel and threw on onto the planks before climbing up to sit with her legs dangling over the edge. There was just enough room to sit up straight, which was a mercy as they would likely be spending much time doing so over the coming months. Serephina climbed up next to Doreen and stared out at the scene around them.

  "Are you scared?" Doreen asked.

  "I don't think there in anything to be scared of," Serephina said, trying to assure the girl who was obviously terrified from being told outlandish tales by someone malicious, but Serephina was only hoping as she really had no idea what to expect. Mr. Cox had bought her all these things she needed, expecting that there would be a life for her on the other end of this voyage. There would be something on the other end, she trusted his judgment implicitly.

  Yelling started on the boards above their heads and soldiers were running around. The sails were being hoisted.

  Serephina put her face in her hands and rested her head there. They were sailing. There would be no going back now—an uncertain future lay ahead of her and she had no choice but to face it.

  Closing her eyes, she listened to the sound of the water moving around the hull. They had chosen well and there was a little porthole just at sitting height off their wooden bench. Shifting over, she looked out, seeing the bank of the river move between the other ships on the river. They were traveling slowly, passing ship after ship, but they were so far east, there was very little left of London to see, quickly giving away to pasture and small villages as the ship picked up speed.

  She would spend months on board this ship with these women, staring out at nothing but sea through a tiny porthole. At least the foul smells of the river was freshening.

  As frightened as she was, she refused to have regrets, although maybe one—which preyed on her mind whenever her thoughts wandered. She'd wished he'd kissed her again, just so she could know what it would feel like to have a second kiss. She may never have one again, she recognized. There had been times, when he'd visited her, when she wished they had been closer, when she could explore the relentless want that sat in her belly, itching her fingers.

  It was almost as if for a time they had existed in their own private battle, but it had now melted away, leaving cold reality and unanswered questions. She wondered what she'd meant to him. Probably nothing—just another creature he served justice to. But she truly couldn't believe that. For a moment, when he'd caught her, there seemed to be a whole other world—still and poignant, including just the two of them, where him catching her meant something else entirely, drawing on a deep craving in her—the one that wanted his kisses and more. But it had never been true. It was just some construct that her mind had created.

  It didn't matter now, she thought and lay back on the hard wooden surface of her bunk. He had turned his attention to his next case and she was sailing off into the great beyond. Placing her hands on her stomach, she sighed. She would never know what possibilities had lain in that fantasy world, filled with a man she couldn't quite describe, who looked at her like he saw everything she was.

  Chapter 27:

  * * *

  It was barely dawn when Rowan sat down at his desk, dragging out the Allerson file yet again. Another two had been placed on his desk too; a young man found dead in Vauxhall and another found lying in his own back yard stabbed in the heart.

  The second of the new cases was pretty straight forward. Neighbors had heard the man fighting with his nephew who had since absconded, while the first was a bit more vague—single punch apparently, during a night of drinking and debauchery. Both bodies were down in the surgeon's office, having been examined.

  As it grew brighter, he turned down the gaslights and continued with his work. His stomach grumbled, but he still didn't feel like eating. Truthfully, he hadn't felt like much lately, but at least the bruises were starting to fade.

  Taking out a sheet of paper, he wrote down the things he needed to do, particularly with relation to the second case where he needed to ask around the drinking establishments nearby. The desk sergeant delivered a file to his desk in his quiet and efficient manner and Rowan reached for it, suspecting it was the drawing of the young man he'd asked for.

  But he would not be investigating this morning; he had something else he needed to do. He'd told himself repeatedly that he wouldn't, but his intentions didn't seem to matter lately, because his feet were itchy and he needed to move. There was only one direction to go—down to the river.

  She was sailing today.

  He'd flatly refused to think of her, but she was always there, having snuck inside his mind and now he couldn't get her out. But she was sailing today, leaving. Maybe that would make her easier to forget.

  Sitting down on the wood store he'd found a few days ago, he looked out across the river where a large ship was anchored alongside a smaller one. She was being moved to the large ship. It was too far away to see her, but he still felt like he needed to be there. It hurt to see the ship and imagine the conditions she was living in, but he couldn't stop coming to sit here by the river, as close to her as he could get.

  She would be sailed to Ireland first, from where she would sail on the HMS Diamond to Sydney—so far it seemed like another world away. But that was the point, discarded and forgotten, too far away to make their way back.

  Everything about this felt wrong, but he searched through every detail on their dealings together and there was nothing he could be reprimanded for—except developing feelings in the matter of this young woman. Leaning against the wall behind him, he just sat there with his eyes closed. It felt like a wound was being inflicted, and there was nothing for him to
do but feel the knife cut. He deserved it for being stupid enough to care.

  It happened relatively quickly and his features drew tighter still when the sails were hoisted and the large ship started to glide down the river. It was too noisy to hear anything, but he saw the men climbing the rigging.

  He needed to go—to turn his back on this and get on with his work. There was so much to do, but he couldn't seem to engage himself properly. Clenching his fists, he watched as the ship sailed down the river and around a bend, gliding out of sight.

  There was part of him frantically evaluating whether he could race to Dublin and rescue her from her fate. It went against everything he believed in, but she seemed to have an ability to make him consider such things, and it was always the thing that made her dangerous. He should be glad to see the back of her, and he would come to realize that with time.

  Forcing himself up, he walked down the bank toward customhouse, having noted in his file something about scribbles in the margin of Mr. Allerson's records book. After, he would make queries at Vauxhall. He would be too busy to think of her.

  Rowan didn't know where he was. He was drunk again—so drunk he couldn't remember what he'd been doing. It still didn't make the uneasy feeling let—no matter how drunk he got. She'd sailed today. All the possibilities were now exhausted—not that there had been any, but the fact that she'd been close by—not that far from where he lived—had meant something to him. She wasn't there anymore and the city felt empty.

  People rushed around him and he ignored them. Looking down, he noticed the bottle in his hand and took a swig. The urge to fight was back—to burn energy and to burn the discomfort that gripped around him with icy fingers. Taking another swig, he kept walking, unsure where he was going. He didn't want to go home, but recognized that he needed to—else he would sleep in the gutter again.

  The world lurched uncontrollably and he had to place his hand out for support. Nausea cramped his stomach as it refused to deal with the harsh treatment he was giving it. He still hadn't managed to eat, although he was screaming hungry. Spotting a seller across the road, he determined he would remedy his own carelessness. He couldn't be that drunk if he was trying to mitigate the damage he was doing to himself. A good portion of him didn't care.

  Emptying his pockets, he scraped together enough coins for a bacon butty and a warm coffee. The coffee burnt his fingers, which meant he was probably cold. The liquid was hot and it scorched his tongue, but he didn't care. It felt like life—nourishment.

  "Rowan?" he heard a woman's voice. For a moment, in his muddled mind, he thought it was her.

  A woman was looking at him. "Lizzie," he said. "I'm not much good to you tonight." Her face was swimming around in front of him. He liked Lizzie. Their relationship was simple, a transaction, with a smattering of friendship around the edges. Probably the only friend he had, he considered.

  "You're not much good to anyone in that state. Let me take you up." She came to him, shifted in beside him and led him away. He'd lost the butty somehow, which was a shame. "Interesting night, was it?"

  He didn't answer—primarily because he couldn't remember. He wouldn't remember this in the morning either, he suspected. Lizzie's body was soft next to his, but it wasn't the one he wanted.

  Focusing his eyes, he realized he was on the stairs, relentlessly being urged up. Lizzie's hand roamed his body, looking though his pockets for the key to his door. Suddenly, he wished he wasn't so drunk, because she could make him feel better, at least for a moment—make the unease that drove him out of his house and out of his mind to leave him alone for a moment.

  He fell hard back into a chair. Lifting his hand up, he put the gin bottle on the table. "Don't mind if I do," Lizzie said, and Rowan watched her as she poured herself a drink. These were her working hours and she should not be sitting here with him. "You're in a right state, aren't you?"

  Rowan smiled. Apparently it was obvious. He'd worked really hard not to accept that fact, but he was in a state. "It seems I'm having trouble being in my own skin," he said, more honestly than he intended. Normally, he wouldn't acknowledge a feeling to anyone, but this was more than he could manage.

  Lizzie swigged back the drink and gritted through the burn. Her eyes returned to him, a hint of sympathy in them. Sympathy wasn't Lizzie's normal state. She was a hard woman with everyone but her children. There is nothing she wouldn't do to get through the day and feed her children. Lizzie and Miss Woodford had the same determination, but he'd hate to see Lizzie's hardness in her eyes.

  His brow drew tight. As much as he despised it, and maybe it was the thing that was making him so damned uncomfortable, he knew that the ordeal Miss Woodford would now have would break her or make her hard. Either way, she would suffer.

  "This is about that woman you've been chasing," Lizzie said matter-of-factly.

  Rowan took another swig out of the gin bottle. It didn't burn anymore, but he wished it did. "She's gone now."

  "Where?"

  "Australia," he said, knowing his words were slurring. "Sailed today."

  "And you're cut to pieces about it."

  He snorted, still resenting the accusation, even though it was blatantly true. Looking down, he felt sadness steal through him—the feeling he'd been avoiding for over a week. "I did my duty," he said after a while, his voice more strained than he wanted. "It was my duty." It felt very important that she know that, but he wasn't sure it was Lizzie or her he was trying to convince.

  "Then stop cutting yourself up about it."

  He blinked slowly, feeling the alcohol flow through his blood. "This will change her."

  "It's not your issue to deal with," Lizzie said firmly, mirroring the things he told himself, but he just couldn't feel it.

  Suddenly, he couldn't sit anymore, he had to move. "I did this to her."

  "No, you didn't. She did this to herself."

  Rowan went for the door, but Lizzie stood in his way. "And you need to sleep. You're no good to anyone like this." The accusation cut through the haze in his mind. "Sleep's your only option and you can either do it here or somewhere much more uncomfortable. In bed," she ordered.

  He didn't take orders from women, or anyone, but she did have a point. For a whole minute he thought about rebelling, wondering what she'd do if he did. He certainly didn't want to get into a fight with her, but she was so damned stubborn, she probably would. "Fine," he said with annoyance, just to avoid the disturbance he would cause if he didn't. She was bloody right and he was no good to anyone. In the morning, these morose feelings would let and he could get on with things.

  "There you go," Lizzie said, urging him onto the bed, but he was already asleep for most intents and purposes. "It's not like you killed her. She's still living and breathing, and if she's tough enough to tangle with you, she'll likely be just fine. Can't say I can imagine the creature that's brought you low, Rowan Cox. Must be quite something. She'll be fine, you hear me."

  He took the reassurance with him into the darkness, because he needed to hear it.

  Chapter 28:

  * * *

  The first time one of the soldiers came during the darkness of night, it had shocked her. Some women became their … sweethearts, and they would come once the lights were extinguished. These women received favorable treatment—extra portions of food, gifts and whatever other reason they did it for. There was no way of escaping the groans and the sounds of slapping bodies, but Serephina would turn to the wall and imagine herself somewhere else.

  The whole idea of men and women was a fraught topic. She knew what it was to want, although she'd never experienced what it was she craved. At times she would close her eyes and remember the kiss, and it sent butterflies to her stomach.

  The woman on the bunk below them, Rachel, was a prostitute and had been with more men than she could count. And she was actually a fairly decent person, despite being what Serephina had been told, the worst possible creature to exist. These women were so very different—their
concerns were unknown to her and vice versa, but they weren't the depraved wastrels she'd been led to believe. For all intents and purposes she was one of them now—not a prostitute, but a woman without means.

  Serephina was starting to know their stories, and some of them were terrible. Learning their experiences, she knew she hadn't been wrong to take the extreme actions she had—poverty was something to fear. It was undignified, insulting, crass, sorrowful and hopeless. She'd been right to fight against it, and she'd been right to avert that fate for Millie, no matter how wrong others said it was. There was no grace in poverty. Nearly every woman here had lost a child to the diseases that ravaged the cramped rookeries of the city, or a loved one to prison or the gallows. Now these women were being discarded and thrown away, just like her.

  "Nothing to keep us there anyway," Rachel had said. "At least there is sun in Australia." But at the rate they were going, they might not ever see it. They certainly hadn't during this voyage. Serephina's health was suffering being locked in this space, never seeing sun or fresh air. Her nails had grown brittle and her hair was sallow.

  Some of the women had grown sick and had been taken by the surgeon, who was a quiet and disapproving man. But the women seemed to beleaguer those types of men the most. This was something Serephina had learnt: these women tended to run people beliefs all over them. If someone was expecting uncivilized behavior, that was exactly what they got from them, in spades. There was a dark humor amongst the women, but it was strong and Serephina was learning it.

  The biggest concern amongst the women was sickness spreading in the cramped space, with the exception of the storm which had rocked them roughly from side to side. Worse for the women in the hammocks, who had been swinging dramatically. For a while, it had gotten quite bad, and for these women's less than devout ways, they had all preyed. If they sank, they would all be locked in here, left to drown. Serephina couldn't imagine a worse fate.