Mary's Guardian

by Carol Preston

  Dedication

  To my many ancestors, whose stories have touched my heart and have inspired me to appreciate our rich Australian heritage.

  Above all else guard your heart for it is the wellspring of life. Proverbs 4:23

  Prologue

  Lincoln, England, 1775

  ‘Get ya grimy ’ands off me stuff or I’ll ’ave ya eyeballs fer marbles.’

  The small boy pulled his hand back from the scrap of bread as if he’d touched a burning stick. He shrunk into the tattered rug on which he’d crouched, fearful of the snarling face of the girl on the other side of the underpass. She hungrily pushed bread into her mouth and drew her spindly legs around the meager remains of her food.

  ‘Now, Mary,’ a deep plea came from the other side of the narrow path. ‘It won’t hurt you to share with Peter. He’s new at this and he’s hungry.’ William looked with pity at the small boy, now huddled against the cold bank. He saw the thin limbs shaking, his bare feet purple-blue despite the mud that almost obscured any skin colour at all. The night air was frosty, though not as bitter as it would be once the winter set in. They would need more covering by then, William mused, and his mind searched for possible places to acquire extras. The band of children who sought refuge close to him most nights was growing and he felt the weight of their neediness heavily.

  ‘A she-cat, that one,’ a voice broke into his thoughts.

  ‘She’ll learn, Tommy.’ William's attention was drawn to the pair across the path.

  ‘Too late…all gone,’ he heard Mary mutter as she shoved the last crumbs into her mouth. She drew some of the rug around her thigh and curled into a tight ball, her back to the small boy beside her.

  ‘It’s not so long since her ma died in the workhouse, remember?’ William turned to the young man beside him. ‘She’s frightened, Tommy. You remember how it was for you when you were ten, don’t you? You’re five years older now…and wiser. She’s still got a lot to learn, but she’s smart underneath that fear. Give her time.’

  ‘Yeah, well she don’t act frightened. She’s like a red rag to a bull out on the streets. All that yellin’ and jumpin’ about. Turns our work into street theatre, she does…and she’s goin’ to get us all hauled in if she don’t calm down.’

  ‘I ’eard that.’ Mary drew herself back into a sitting position. She pushed her matted red curls away from her forehead and glared across at Tommy in the fading light. ‘I get more’n my fair share out there, I do. More’n you got today.’ She screwed her face into a “dare to argue” scowl.

  ‘Maybe,’ Tommy sneered. ‘But ya made that much noise about it every trap on the block was after us. The rest of us didn’t ’ave a chance to get nothin’.

  ‘Too slow is what you are,’ Mary taunted, her pixie-like features belying the roughness of her tone.

  ‘Well, t’was Will what got the prize. A silver watch is what ’e got. An’ the old codger likely still don’t know it’s missin’. That’s more’n you’ll ever get with all ya gran’ standin’. Ol’ George on that bread cart will ’ave ’is eyes peeled for any of us for weeks, so we’ll not get a morsel from ’im for God knows ’ow long.’

  ‘Well, eat ya ruddy watch then, if ya too slow to get bread. An’ don’t think you’re ’avin’ some o’ mine.’ With that Mary dragged more of the rug from the boy beside her and curled herself up again, closing her eyes tightly.

  ‘Enough, Tommy,’ William interjected. ‘I said let it go. We don’t need to be at each other. We’ve enough enemies as it is. Get some sleep and tomorrow we’ll move to the other side of town…find some new pickings. Those traps today almost got a couple of the young ones. They know the look of us a bit too well.’

  ‘Know the look of ’er, ya mean…that great mop o’ hair…an’ she won’t keep the cap on like ya told ’er.’

  ‘She’s a girl, Tommy. Girls are different to boys. It’s harder for them to keep quiet. Now go to sleep,’ William insisted. He needed to think about how he’d get these ten or twelve youngsters through the winter.

  ‘Well, she ought to act more like a boy if she’s to ’ang with us.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen, Tommy. I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.’

  ***

  Mary blew hurriedly at the red curls that flopped over her eyes and peered around at the bustle of shoppers and browsers at the market. Some jostled and shoved at each other playfully, some stood in serious conversation, exchanging gossip and tales of woe. Others picked over wilted vegetables and argued with sellers for cheaper prices. Across the lane Mary could see Dan Mercer and two or three of the other boys who were part of their group as they passed a barrow of carrots and beans. She noted what evaded the seller’s eye; a pocket of beans for one of the boys, a bunch of carrots slid under the coat of another. She had to admit they were fast; a distracting thrust of one arm, the flash of nimble fingers on the other hand and the boys were past the cart and no one the wiser for their prize. But she was as good, she mused, edging close to a cart where a pile of fresh eggs lay begging. A short, fat man stood behind his display, scowling at his customer who insisted on pushing aside the cabbages on top to get to the fresher ones underneath. She was about to pluck an egg from the pile when William sidled up to her and quietly spoke in her ear.

  ‘The traps are out, Mary. We’re moving on.’ With that he walked on, no hint of his concern in his easy lope. With a sideways glance he gave the same message to boys on either side of the lane and Mary watched as one by one the boys emerged from the huddles in which they’d concealed their activities and followed William. She cast a quick look behind her. Two policemen were trudging up the hill towards the market, their truncheons swinging. Half out of breath already, she noted, inwardly mocking, and turned back to the eggs that were so white and inviting. Her pockets were already bulging with sweet smelling bread but she was sure she could fit an egg or two around it. As her small pale hand reached towards the pile a large hairy fist grabbed her wrist. She pulled back, shocked at the vice like grip, and looked up into the dark glaring eyes of the seller.

  ‘Gotcha’, he bellowed at her across the cart, drawing the attention of those milling close by in the market and also that of the two policemen.

  The rest happened so fast that Mary’s head spun with panic. She wrenched her hand free and tried to run. Just then, a few of the local buyers, resentful of the young larrikins that hunted on their streets, fouled her getaway and she found herself pushing through billowing skirts, baskets and sharp-ended parasols. Suddenly another hand grabbed at her – this time a familiar one – and she looked up into the anxious eyes of William. Around him two or three of the other boys tried to help shepherd her through the crowd. She could sense the firm hold of William’s hand as she moved slowly, half dragged, tripping and pushing off the arms of those who would bar their way. Mary was barely waist high to most of the crowd now. The shouting and cursing around her almost obscured the sound of her own frustrated squeals. But despite the desperate efforts of the small band to escape, the tangle of legs and arms grew thicker around them until the way was completely blocked. When Mary looked up again, the faces looming down were cruel and harsh. The shrill scream of a whistle pierced the air and seemingly out of nowhere four more policemen pushed aside the crowd and grabbed at the boys’ arms.

  ‘Got you lot, now,’ one of the policemen snarled, wielding his truncheon above their heads.

  William held back two of the boys who jumped up to fight off the policemen. ‘No, lads,’ he said firmly. He seemed to know it was a lost cause.

  But Dan Mercer was not to be held. He struggled and shouted, his cursing no doubt heard from one end of the lane to the other. And as Mary and the boys watched in horror, one of the policemen
laid into the boy’s thin back with his truncheon, pounding him into the ground until he was lying still and quiet except for diminishing low groans.

  ‘For mercy’s sake,’ William pleaded, his voice breaking, ‘the boy’s half dead with hunger already.’

  ‘Shut up,’ a voice behind William snapped. ‘Or you’ll be next.’

  When the policeman had satisfied his rage he stood back from Dan, his chest heaving. He glared around at the small troop of youngsters, most now visibly shaking, stunned into silence. His sneer dared them, even invited them, to take Dan’s place. Mary’s chin rose defiantly and she hissed into the face of the officer who held her shoulder. He immediately shook her so brutally that she was sure the others would hear her teeth rattle. Instinctively she turned to William and in his eyes she saw a deep sadness and a pleading for her to be still.

  ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, her own eyes dropping. Remorse wasn’t something she was familiar with, and she felt shame stirring in her heart. She saw that not only herself, but William and the others, were now also in trouble.

  She shuffled close to William’s side, her movements overlooked as the policemen manacled the boys’ hands behind their backs and then hoisted Dan’s limp body onto one of their shoulders.

  ‘You came back,’ Mary mumbled, in that instant realising that this fact was no surprise to her.

  No one in her life had been there for her as William Douglass had been this past year.

  Acknowledging her attempt at gratitude, his tired smile hid a deep fear that the efforts he made in saving these youngsters had now come to an end, possibly costing the life of Dan Mercer.

  Chapter One

  Lincoln, England, October, 1786

  From the exercise yard William could see the upper part of the city, referred to as “uphill” by the locals. High limestone cliffs loomed behind, like sentinels guarding the religious and military families who resided there. William had mixed feelings as he remembered back to his earlier days, roaming the steep cobbled streets that led from “downhill” to the peak. Ten years since he’d last been there but he remembered darting in and out of alleys he knew like the back of his hand as if it were yesterday. He wondered if he would ever set foot on those cobbles again.

  ‘Best keep moving, Douglass.’ Officer Corby had come up behind him. ‘You’ve not enough time out here to be longing for yesteryear.’

  William moved off, in step with Corby, but not looking at him. He preferred to keep the congenial nature of their relationship private. It was useful to have in the prison a guard who didn’t spit on him or give him the boot.

  ‘Any news of young Mary?’ William came to a stop at the end of the yard.

  Corby had a quiet chuckle. ‘You never give up, do you? She’s a right terror is all I hear, a real spitfire.’

  ‘She always had a fighting spirit.’ William smiled at the image of a feisty young girl, dodging through a crowd of skirts and canes, her pockets bulging with silk handkerchiefs and fob watches. ‘She was just a child, trying to survive.’ His voice faded at the last. He could still see the ten-year-old in his mind’s eye, even though he knew she would now be a woman of twenty. He smiled to himself as he realized he wouldn’t even recognize her if he were to meet her in the street. But that didn’t stop the desire to look out for her, to protect her.

  As he walked around the exercise yard he remembered leading the band of children. There had been so many of them: some born in workhouses of destitute parents, others orphaned by one of the many influenza or cholera epidemics. William shivered at the memory of huddling together in dark corners of the city: under a bridge, at the back of a condemned building, always on the move. Not a day went by when he didn’t wonder where their next meal would come from. Debris of the Industrial Revolution, he’d heard it said; the breakdown of the 'old ways' when families worked from home, spinning and weaving, growing crops and keeping animals. Now it was all textile mills, factories and mining for those lucky enough to secure employment. For the rest it was near starvation, homelessness or overcrowded city living. For the children it was survival at any cost.

  William knew how they felt, for it was how he’d grown up himself. So, he’d done his best to protect the young ones on the street while staying safe himself. In the end he’d failed. Ten of their group had been rounded up the day Mary had lingered over the eggs. They’d been thrown into cells where Dan Mercer had died from his injuries. The others were tried and, in due course, imprisoned for stealing and picking pockets.

  No one cared how long they’d been in prison, not even William himself if he was honest, for what difference did it make to his life? In here or out there it was scrounging and stealing just to eat. It was shivering through bitter winters, jostling for a sheltered space or a blanket so he could catch snatches of sleep, wary lest some other desperately hungry, cold blighter slit his throat for a crust of bread or a rag to cover himself. In here or out there it was the same rat infested cramped corners and maggot ridden food. Just as he’d done on the outside, William had settled his differences with other wretches in the same plight and emerged as one to be respected. He wanted no more than his fair share, and he stood up to those who thought they’d have more than theirs.

  Corby was approaching him from the other direction, casting his eyes about the compound, watching prisoners who stretched and strode, or shuffled from one end of the yard to the other. Many huddled to guffaw at a ribald joke, their limbs stiff from lack of use, their skin pallid and shrunken from lack of fresh air and sunshine. They sucked it in greedily, almost blinded by the brightness of the light until their bloodshot eyes could adjust to their twice weekly exposure to the air outside their fetid, dark cells.

  ‘She’s a child no longer, Douglass,’ Corby picked up on William’s last remark. ‘And she’s grown wilder with the years. Causes no end of trouble for the female warders, I hear. Fights like a cat. Won’t take orders from anyone, no matter how much she’s beaten.’

  William hated to think of Mary being beaten but still he couldn’t help grinning. He tried to picture how that freckled face and wild unkempt curls would look now. She’d been a wisp of a girl, with the appearance of a wild cat when in full flight. But she was also a kitten at heart, he knew, for he’d seen her curled in a corner on a few rags, snuffling lightly as she slept, her stomach still growling softly, bemoaning its emptiness.

  ‘Is she healthy, then?’

  ‘As any of ’em.’ Corby shook his head. ‘Most men would be thinking of her in other ways now…not concerned with the state of her health. Mind you, it’d take a brave man to try anything with her, I reckon.’

  William couldn’t come at thinking of Mary as anything but a frightened, desperate child.

  ‘You know there’s talk of ridding the gaol of the trouble makers?’ Corby was behind William now, his words almost lost in the gust of cold air that blew around their faces.

  ‘Ridding?’ William’s ears pricked up. ‘How? They’d not hang a girl, would they?’ A shudder ran up his spine.

  ‘Some, maybe…and certainly some of the men. Been threatening it for a year. The gaols are overcrowded.’

  It was a few minutes before William was able to pass Corby again in hearing distance. ‘More likely transportation,’ he heard as Corby bent to adjust the cuff of his breeches.

  ‘Transportation!’ William muttered. ‘I thought that was all over. The Americas have stopped taking convicts, haven’t they?’

  ‘They have.’ Corby rose and turned to face William. ‘But it seems another place has been discovered. There’s talk of a fleet of ships being readied to sail to the southern seas. A new colony for Britain…and a new dumping ground for prisoners. They say in the docks the hardened criminals are being given a choice: hanging or transportation. More than a few choose hanging.’

  William’s mind raced with the news. ‘Will we get a choice?’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ The answer came softly as Corby moved away.

  ***

 
William lay in his narrow cot in the cell, brooding over the possibility of transportation. Though it was in the early hours of the morning, he was interrupted by the scuffling of other prisoners. Gruff voices rose in argument, and a moment later there was the familiar disruption of half starved, freezing men, fighting over a ragged blanket. William sighed heavily and rose from his cot. He made his way carefully towards the noise, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dark.

  ‘Ease up, boys. You’ll have the guards here.’ William kept his voice calm though he felt his ire rise. He ducked back as one threw a wild punch at the other in the blackness, then moved in and tried to hold them apart.

  ‘Let ’em come,’ Ed Davies jeered. ‘They can take this one an’ hang ’im for mine.’

  With that, groaning and cursing erupted around the cell and there was more scuffling and dragging of blankets between prisoners. Within minutes a guard was banging on the cell bars.

  ‘You lot shut up, or it’s the lash.’ The officer's voice was thick with sleepiness.

  ‘Another blanket or two would solve more.’ William moved to the bars, facing the burly man. ‘The ones we have are threadbare.’

  ‘That you again, Douglass? Always complainin’. This ain’t the Ritz, ya know.’

  ‘That it’s not, sir, but if you want these prisoners dead it would be more merciful to hang them than to starve or freeze them slowly.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, so you’ve said a dozen times.’ The guard snorted maliciously. ‘An’ what if we just let ’em kill each other off, eh? That’d save us all a lot o’ trouble.’

  ‘Your job is to guard us. Not to determine whether we live or die.’

  ‘Is that so?’ William heard him spit to the side. ‘An’ what do ya think you’re goin’ to do about that? There’s nothin’ but scum in ’ere. Who cares if they live or die, eh? Tell me that. Jus’ takin’ up space some other good-for-nothin’ will occupy in a while. No one gives a tinker’s cuss for any of you.’ He threw back his head and guffawed cruelly.