“It’s Mel now,” she corrected the woman, pleased to be back with someone who knew the score. No more would she involve herself in affairs with young women such as Abigail. A letter of apology had been forwarded to her bank in New York from Lady Worthington. At first, Mel had wanted to tear it up, but she had read it, feeling tempted at first to burn it. Instead, she read it many times, telling herself that Abigail’s decisions weren’t completely her own. She was a victim of circumstance and timing. She was simply too young to realize that marriage to a man didn’t mean she would be secure the rest of her life. She’d sacrificed their love for her family. Her father had seen to that and auctioned her off to the highest bidder, which in this case was the much older Lord Worthington. Only the fact that Mel hadn’t taken her virginity had saved her reputation. According to Abigail, a doctor had examined her and certified to Lord Worthington that she was untouched. The rest of their relationship could be dismissed and certainly didn’t matter.
Abigail had been her first true love. Mel wondered if there would ever be another. She consoled herself in the arms and ample bosom of her first tutor and lover, Madam LeSabre, who received the young woman with open arms.
“I did not teach you that,” the older woman gasped as her former student made her orgasm in ways she had thought were long gone. She had become jaundiced to the ways of the men and the few women who visited her establishment and thought she would never experience these feelings again, but something about Mel enticed her, and it wasn’t just her large bank account. The muscular woman took the time to make her feel wanted, needed, and cherished. She knew someone of Mel’s station would never take her along on her journeys, and she sighed regretfully when Mel finally moved on. “Vere vill you go?” she asked, trying not to act needy.
“I’ve a hankering to see what Texas is about. Maybe I will try ranching,” she confided, working to keep her voice lower and further her disguise.
“Be careful. Those boys can be a leetle vild,” she advised, wishing she could give the mannish woman some reason to stay on in New Orleans.
Mel did heed her advice, but her appearance and size precluded anyone even suspecting that she was a woman. She mastered a quiet, brooding style and was discreet about her absolutions, going off to do her business in the brush and looking about carefully before dropping her drawers. She hired on at one ranch, averting her eyes when men behaved in a manner she realized must be the norm: peeing whenever and wherever they felt the need and talking of women in ways that would have caused her to blush at one time. Now, she learned to ignore those men. There were a few who had manners, and she cultivated their friendships and copied their behaviors in order to fit in.
“We’re taking a herd of three thousand head up to Colorado, if you want to hire on for that,” the offer went up and several hands volunteered, including Mel.
She learned to herd cattle, roping and riding along for hours. Unfortunately, it gave her a lot of time to think about what she wanted to do with her life. As they came to a few towns that catered to cattlemen and cowboys, she too sought out the available women, but none really appealed, and she couldn’t let on that she was anything more than a cowboy to them. None satisfied her or her needs, so instead, she concentrated on their needs, leaving them well-satisfied and half in love with the attentive cowhand. Mel Lawrence’s reputation as a lady’s man became well-established on that drive. The one-sided lovemaking was not to Mel’s liking, and she’d heard that some of the women were diseased, so she worried about that as well.
Mel headed back to Kansas after they delivered the herd to Colorado. She helped with several other smaller herds over the years, taking them north or further west or even to the rail line to be taken back east to feed the masses. It was on one of those trail drives that she heard about miners that were paying top dollar in California and decided to buy her own herd and hire her own cowboys to take to the gold mines in the mountains outside of Sacramento. The journey was long and arduous across the desert, and Mel played it safe, hiring Ute guides to cross the desert and later, the Bannocks to get them to the camps. The miners paid in gold coin, and after paying off the cowboys she had hired, Mel decided to head to San Francisco. She hoped to find a madam like LeSabre, who understood her unique needs. Hiding the money in a place where she knew no man would ever touch another man (unless they were so inclined), she headed west for the coast, a decision that would change her life.
Mel checked in at one of the larger hotels. She no longer thought twice about registering as Mel Lawrence. After soaking in a real bathtub for hours, she sat down and wrote letters to her factors back east in New York, then another letter to Mr. Adams in England and to Monsieur Fabre in Belgium. She intended to stay in San Francisco for an indeterminate period while she looked around. Sending her letters off, the last two reporting back to New York, she felt she’d concluded her business and could look at possibly investing here in California. The coins between her legs were uncomfortable in their new, clean wrappings, and she thought about depositing them in a bank.
That night, she put on one of her more citified suits after she’d arranged for the maid to iron the wrinkles out of it, and she went out for a nice meal. She returned to her hotel to change back into some of her more comfortable cowboy clothes for a night on the town, stopping to get a drink at one of the many saloons. One of those drinks must have been laced with something because she woke up the next day on the ship.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Get your ass up, you little worm,” he yelled in the man’s face before pulling the short whip from his belt and wielding it. The man screamed in pain as it wrapped around his torso, the many fronds of leather clinging around his body and inflicting the maximum punishment.
Mel tried to mind her own business, knowing it would be a mistake to interfere. The newly shanghaied man didn’t understand the language or the rules. He was doing his best, but he was inept and inexperienced. He had to learn, unfortunately, he was learning the hard way. She ignored the man’s cries and went on to get her breakfast.
The food was watery, thin, and inedible for the most part. Except for the officers or those who had hoarded their own food aboard, there was very little variation in the offerings from the mess for the rest of the crew. Mel felt like she was in prison. She heard the men, some no better than hogs at a trough, as they slurped at their slop. She tried to hide her more fastidious side, certain it would give away her disguise. She leaned her elbows on the table to keep the bowl from sliding as the seas around them caused the ship to rise and fall. She used the bread to sop up the juices after flicking weevils from it with a dirty nail.
After breakfast, she hurried about the assignments she had been given, doing a good job and keeping to herself, trying not to draw attention. She heard the men who were taking a special glee in victimizing the newly shanghaied sailors and making their lives a living hell.
“Stop it,” she told one of them when she came upon him down in the hold where she was checking the water level. Ironically, she couldn’t help but think about the man she had drowned here just a few weeks ago. She glanced at the man, who was even now whipping another of the new men.
“What’s that you say?” he asked, belligerently, immediately becoming defensive and trying to intimidate her. If they got nasty enough and bullied others enough, most men would back down.
“I said stop it,” she said calmly, watching him as well as the man he had been hurting. “You’ll get more work outta ‘im,” she pointed with her thumb and adopted the vernacular of other sailors, so he would understand, “if you teach ‘im how to do it right.”
“Who are you to say?” he asked, trying to get right in her face, but she was too tall for him and that seemed to bother him.
Mel watched his hand that held the whip, and she knew the exact moment when he decided to use it on her. She saw the cunning and strange expression coming over his eyes as he considered his options. “I’m just sayin’…she began, then saw the whip hand pullin
g back to strike. Her own hand struck out of its own volition, grabbing his hand and holding it back. “You use that on me, and you’ll regret it,” she told him conversationally. She clearly remembered the last person who had used one of those on her poor back. She didn’t ever want a repeat of that pain! It had taken a long time to heal, and she couldn’t risk infection.
“You hain’t got the authority ‘ere…” he began, trying again to intimidate her.
“No, I hain’t,” she repeated back to him, “but you hain’t gonna use it on me either.” She could feel him trying to remove his filthy hand from her grasp, but she didn’t let go, exerting relatively little pressure to hold him still. She could tell her size and strength unsettled him.
“Mind yer own business!”
“It is my business, if I choose to make it so. You use that on me, and you’ll regret it.”
It was a battle of wills, and when the strength in his hand gave out, he relaxed his hand long enough that she let go. She saw the cunning look again as he considered striking her but something about her countenance told him not to bother or he’d regret it.
“You!” he told the cowering man, pointing the whip at him, “get back to work!” Having asserted his authority, he went on his way, glancing back menacingly at Mel.
“Th…th…thanks,” the man stammered gratefully to Mel, his French accent grating on her already taut nerves.
“Just do your work,” she said, brushing off his gratitude. She didn’t want anyone noticing her. She had work to do and plans to make. If she made too many enemies on this ship, she’d be dead…or worse. She went to pass by him.
“I was just trying to thank–” he began, sounding angry as he dealt with the pain from the lash he had received.
“Look, I don’t need you or your gratitude,” she told him angrily, towering over him in her ire. “Just do your work!” With that, she brushed past him and went about her business of inspecting the water levels.
There were definite factions on this ship, and as they headed south, passing many islands, the tension seemed to be mounting. More of the new men were treated harshly as they learned the painful job of how to become sailors…or died trying. The waste of human life disgusted Mel, and more than once, she thought about diving off the ship and making her way to the far-off islands they could occasionally see. The sharks in the water, and the knowledge that many of these islanders were cannibals, or so she had overheard, kept her aboard. She had no way of making herself understood or making her way back to English-speaking countries. She might be trading one prison for another.
Humphrey Duggins saw her gazing wistfully at the islands they were skirting, well out in the shipping lanes but close enough that the land could be seen from their ship. “I would’na chance it, man. Them natives ‘ill eat ya alive,” he advised.
Mel grinned; she’d already surmised that since the captain and his officers made no attempt to stop at any of these ports. “It’s interesting, and I’d like to see the ports we’ve stopped in,” she admitted.
“They don’ trust ya yet,” he told her, thumb pointing back to where some of the other men stood on board smoking their pipes or sharing a bit of the rum they were allowed. A few were dicing and their shouts could occasionally be heard.
“I don’t blame ‘em,” she admitted in a joking manner, her hands plaiting a bit of rope to keep them busy. Other sailors were still on duty and milling about the ship.
“You make a first-class sailor when ya want to,” he told her grudgingly, clapping her on the shoulder in a friendly manner but backing off immediately. This man invited no liberties and had made no real friends. He hadn’t really tried.
“I do my fair share,” Mel admitted, not taking offence at the old sailor’s comment. He had been kind in his own gruff way, teaching Mel things she needed to know in order to survive on this hellish ship.
“Aye, you do that,” the man admitted, taking out his pipe and fitting it to his mouth. “I’ll be glad when we get to Sydney, and I can get some more of my fixin’s,” he said, indicating the tobacco he was carving from a fig and putting into the bowl of his pipe.
“So that be where we are makin’?” she asked, innocently enough. She’d heard it before but wanted confirmation.
“That’s what ‘e says,” he thumb pointed to the men enjoying themselves with their rum.
Mel wasn’t certain which man he was indicating, but she nodded to acknowledge what he had just said. “Ya been there before?”
“Ayup, a few times,” he admitted. “Hain’t like any other port in the world. It’s new, but then it’s got all dem convicts.”
Mel had heard that. Australia, like America, had been a dumping ground for England’s unwanted. They could work off their period of imprisonment. Some made their way back to England, depending on their offenses, and some settled down to become productive citizens. Still others only got worse and some of the worst of these ended up on Van Diemen’s Land. “They done that back in the colonies of the Americas,” she acknowledged, curbing her speech to sound like everyone else’s. She didn’t want to draw attention to her manner of speaking, and fitting in was paramount to her survival.
He went on, telling her tales of various ports they had visited. Mel listened distractedly, taking in the information but wishing she could bring the conversation back to Sydney, where they were heading. She needed more information than the little she already had. But she knew if she brought it up specifically, he would get suspicious, and as she had been one of the shanghaied, she would still be watched. She wondered when or if they would ever allow her to remain on the ship when in port. She also knew it hadn’t helped that she had made no friends on this long trip. Friends could show that she could be trusted. She had only made superficial friends, ones that now knew she had been a cowboy and nothing more. They’d told others what little they knew about Mel.
Mel made her plans carefully, not knowing if she could ever really use them, and she remained flexible enough to change them, if needed. She didn’t want to leave the ship violently. If caught, they’d string her up and certainly discover her secrets. She wondered which would create the greatest hostility: the fact that she was a woman or the gold coins she still carried between her legs. It was an uncomfortable fact that the coins were there. They caused her to walk oddly, but she hoped people just assumed it was the cowboy’s unusual gait. Several had remarked that she was a real American cowboy, and she’d not dissuaded them from their gossip. There was little enough to distract them, but at least some of the officers carried books to read. She longed for that privilege, realizing it had been a long time since she held a book in her hands and read for enjoyment.
Mel looked around carefully before she squatted to make her absolutions. The cloth she used to wipe herself had become disgusting, but the food no longer agreed with her, and she’d become thin with all that went through her system. The acid on her skin often hurt too, and she could only use the slop bucket twice per day or maybe three times, if she was lucky. Any more than that and it would be noticed, or if she was unlucky, she would be watched. As she was one of the few who cleaned the slop bucket, mostly so she could get some privacy, that too would be noticed. She’d nearly been caught a few times in the close confines of the ship. With so many men about, it was sometimes difficult to find the privacy she needed. Most of the men didn’t care where they squatted over the buckets, and Mel simply averted her eyes.
“Well, what do we have ‘ere, eh mate?” a voice caught her at it one evening as she was attempting to use the bucket privately.
Mel had just finished and wiped herself when he showed up. She quickly rose, pulling her trousers up and adjusting the coins, hoping they wouldn’t clink and give her away. They caught in the hairs between her legs and pulled, making her wince with pain as the hairs were pulled out by the root. “What, you like to watch?” she insulted the man, verbally attacking him to put him on the offensive, as she fastened her trousers. They were really becoming threadb
are, and she’d have to trade someone for something better soon.
“What’s that you say?” he asked, insulted. Some of the men took other men as lovers, and some men, like this one, were always ready to disparage those who did. He and others like him were careful where and when they said something about this practice as there were a few who had power over them who were men lovers.
“I asked you if you like to watch a man taking a shyte?” She went to pick up the bucket, intending to take it up top and throw it over the side and then rinse it out. It kept the stink down if she rinsed it in salt-water.
“Who the ‘ell…” he began but backed away as the bucket nearly slopped on his shirtfront. “’Ey, you watchit!”
“Get out of my way,” she snarled, using the bullying tactics others used to get their way. No niceties worked on most of these men, although there were others who were polite.
“You better watch ‘er mouth,” he grumbled as Mel went by him, and he shoved her slightly.
Mel didn’t hesitate. She’d been prepared for anything and having almost been caught, she was angry. Her left hand held the pail, but her right arm came back and her elbow hit the man in the neck. He started choking immediately, and Mel pushed him out of her way as she headed up the stairs with the bucket. She heard him gagging.
Mel had thrown out the contents and was washing the bucket when the man, who had recovered enough to gather a few of his cronies, tried to jump her. She’d been ready, and the bucket crashed down on his head, momentarily blinding him as the saltwater hit his face. She followed through with a punch to his gut and let the bucket go to punch him with her other hand when he pulled the bucket away from his face. His outstretched chin proved to be a perfect target. He went down in surprise at the strength and power behind Mel’s punches. Two of his buddies tried to jump her, but the other sailors, sensing a fight in the offing and wanting to enjoy it, held one of them back as Mel punched the other. They let him go, so she could fight him as well as the first man who got up off the deck. By the time the officers noticed and gathered to watch, Mel had downed all three of the scraggly lot and was wiping the snot from her nose. She picked up the bucket, contemplating it, and then glanced up.
Shanghaied Page 10
