by Renard, Loki
The captain had been in the process of turning to leave me to my fate, but my words bought him snapping back towards me, not unlike a clockwork toy. He looked at me with irritation, but there was some curiosity in his gaze as he examined me as carefully as if I had turned out to be a talking fish dredged up out of the deep. “You do understand your situation, do you not, Miss Wilde? You are a convict being transported to the Australian penal colonies.”
I hastened to assure him that I did understand that very well indeed.
“Then why, might I ask, do you speak and behave like a dowager taking a dip at Blackpool?”
I understood immediately what he meant by his question. He was wondering how somebody of my obvious breeding had fallen so far from grace. It was a question I had no intention of answering directly, for the direct answer pained me deeply. “It is fate who should be taking this voyage, not I,” I made the reply with a small smile so as not to seem overwrought with despair.
He smiled for some hidden reason and his face was transformed. There was no doubting that Captain Morrow was a handsome man, he had strong features set in fine bone structure slightly on the narrow side. When he smiled small dimples appeared on his cheeks and I felt my heart flutter quite inappropriately as my own lips curled in response. For a fleeting moment, the ship went away, complete with those who acted as guards and even the sweeping river seemed to drift far into the background. I found myself absorbed in his gaze, fancying that it was just he and I in that place.
Then rough hands were laid on me and the fantasy was shattered as Captain Morrow’s men drew me towards the lower deck. I hadn’t seen him give the order, but before I knew what was happening I was down in the prison deck, a place sheltered from natural light in a way that made me temporarily blind.
A cheer went up, a half celebratory, half jeering sound from my fellow inmates. I had expected it, but it was no easier to endure for the expectation. The impulse to make a rude gesture was strong, but my arms were occupied with Captain Morrow’s stalwarts so I had no choice but to endure the comments made as we passed down the clear center.
Part of the deck was open and hung with hammocks, but there was a barred section towards the rear and I knew without asking that I was headed for that locked off space. I found my breath coming quicker, my heart beating faster as panic rose. “Please,” I begged my captors. “Please don’t lock me away.”
“Ye dived over the edge, ye wee nut, of course we’ll be locking ye away,” the Scotsman to my right informed me gruffly.
I made no more appeals to their sense of mercy. I did notice that most of the barred area was not locked, but occupied simply for space. Several women already sat and lounged on bunks bolted to the walls and bars. I nodded to them politely as I was escorted into a cell and locked away most securely, but mercifully not before the manacles were removed. It seemed I was to be free to pace my cage at will, though that was little comfort. As the guard’s key turned in the lock, my fear that the ship might sink and I would be trapped below decks to drown like a rat made my mouth dry.
I did not have long to fret about my situation as I was soon distracted by the appearance of a tall man in a black velvet coat who made his way down the stairs leading to the main deck with great aplomb. He moved with a curious motion that drew my eye, his gait somehow sinuous and dangerous.
“Ladies!” His gravelly voice boomed over our heads, cutting through chatter and making space for silence. “I am Mr. Roake, master of education and discipline for the next eight months of your lives. It is my hope that you will land in the colonies better women than you left these shores. To this end you will find yourselves attending regular lessons in which those of you who do not know how to read and write will be taught to do so.” He ran a supercilious eye across the prison deck, finding each of us wanting in our own way. “I will also be handling affairs of discipline. Those of you who do not obey the rules I shall lay out in short order will find yourselves very sorry for it.”
Already I did not like this Roake. There was a peculiar glee in his voice as he subsequently made reference to birch rods and canes and other implements that might be used to impart discipline if he so saw fit. Some of the younger women and children began to sniffle at his devilish descriptions of those instruments of pain.
“One of you has already distinguished herself in disobedience,” he said, casting his eye towards the rear of the ship where I was incarcerated. I felt a shiver pass through my very bones as his eyes settled on my dripping form. The cold feeling grew as he walked towards the cells, a path silently forming around him as he moved. There were no titters of excitement or murmurs of appreciation for this man, though he was not unpleasant in aspect. I could only conclude that the others felt what I felt, the presence of a predator, a fox let loose amongst the chickens.
Chapter Two
I was glad for the bars that divided us as Roake stopped at my cell. He was close enough that I could smell his cologne, a wood-musk scent that seemed out of place in the salt ridden air. Though we were still on the river, the ship had absorbed the scents of the wide ocean and it was possible to taste what lay before us as we breathed in those lingering fumes of journeys gone by. His height meant that my natural eye line fell several inches below his shoulder at the spot where his raven locks terminated in gentle waves.
“Miss Jane Wilde, I presume?” He tilted his head and looked at me with a mocking gaze. His dark curls cascaded about his shoulders, a thin and precisely trimmed mustache twitching above his lips. I lowered my head, not wishing to meet his twinkling eyes. “That was quite a dive.”
“Yes sir,” I agreed. Something about the man made me fearful. I wished there was somewhere to hide, but there was nowhere in the cell to retreat to. I was forced to stand there, to be observed by this gentleman who made my very blood cold.
“You are a spirited woman,” he said, feigning the complement. “But I am not interested in spirit. I am interested in obedience.” He let the words hang in the air ominously until I was certain that my fate was to be the first victim of his cruel implements, but when he finished his thought, I discovered that the captain, if not fate, had smiled upon me. “You are fortunate that Master Morrow has intervened on your behalf, for I had the perfect cane picked out for your hide before you hit the water,” he said with a slight sigh of dismay.
“Yes sir,” I mumbled. It was best to agree with this type of man, the type who so desperately needed to control a woman with pain. There were many thousands of men like him in England; I hoped that their number would be smaller in the colonies if traveling to Australian shores were to be my destiny.
There was a long moment in which he did not speak, rather inspected me closely with a keen look. “I hope that this agreeable disposition you now display is a result of your understanding that you are under the authority of Captain Morrow and myself and that we will stop at nothing to ensure that you are delivered to Australian shores to serve your sentence – and not merely dampened spirits resulting from standing about in sodden clothes.”
“The former, most certainly,” I murmured, hoping to appease his need for control.
“Yet something in your speech tells me this is not the case,” he said dryly. “Mark my words, Miss Wilde, I will have my eye on you. Give me but the slightest reason and I will see you meet the rod and cane you so richly deserve.”
I fixed my eyes on my toes, which were taking on a shade of pale blue. I had earlier removed my boots and stockings in an effort to stave off blisters, but it had left my feet exposed, just as the rest of my person, perhaps even my soul was exposed to this man who looked at me with the same glittering gaze a cobra gives its prey. Did he know that he looked upon a veritable mongoose when he looked at me? I thought not. A hundred retorts vied for my tongue, but I gave voice to none of them. Wet and alone, one woman against the agents of a king who had sentenced me to an uncertain fate on distant shores, there were not words in existence that properly expressed the disdain and loathing I
had for this Roake and yes, as handsome as he might be, Captain Morrow too.
Apparently satisfied by my silence, or at least giving up on baiting me for a short time, Roake returned sternwards and cleared his throat as he retrieved a small tome from his pocket. “You will shortly be separated into two groups, one of which will take up residence on the other side of this bulkhead.” Here he tapped the wall behind him with his knuckles. “You will find that your time on the Valiant will be bearable, if not pleasant if you follow the rules I am about to impart. These are directly from Captain Morrow, so see that you mind them. To break one of these rules is to have trespassed against not just my authority, but the captain’s and I should not have to tell you that on this ship, Captain Morrow’s authority is absolute.”
There was a small murmur at the mention of the captain’s name, the mere sound of it seemed to bring a visceral reaction from many of the women, who I saw were listening to Roake intently with a mind to studiously obeying the rules as he opened the tome and began to read aloud.
“Prisoners will conduct themselves respectfully towards guards, officers and one another. At no time shall prisoners strike up conversations with guards and officers.” He looked up at us all. “You will speak when spoken to. Naturally, foul language, shouting and fighting are all disallowed. If you are locked down,” here he glanced towards me, “shouting between the bars is strictly prohibited, as is rowdiness of all kinds. You are ladies and will behave as such.”
That drew the odd guffaw of amusement from those who had never regarded themselves as being anything like ladies. Roake responded to the outburst with a cold glare at the responsible parties that was immediately effective.
“Your hammocks will be taken down each morning and rolled and stowed, or in fine weather, they are to be taken on deck. The same applies to bunk bedding. Breakfast is held at precisely eight o’clock in the mess. At nine thirty you will assemble on deck for prayers, and at ten o’clock schooling and exercises will begin. Lunch is served at twelve and schooling and exercises resume at one thirty…”
I found my attention wandering as Mr. Roake trotted out the rest of the rules and regulations with clipped passion. I was cold and growing colder by the moment in the shadows of the cell. My sodden underclothes were not enough to keep me warm and my discarded dress had yet to be returned. I wanted to ask for it, but I did not want to draw the attention of Roake any more than was absolutely necessary.
“Wilde! What did I just say?” His harsh gravelly tones cut through my miserable reverie. I should not have been surprised that he sought to make further example of me. I had ill-distinguished myself from the very start and in doing so made myself a pet of sorts – the sort that is starved and beaten.
I opened my mouth to reply, but I found no words there. I had not the faintest inkling what dreary rule he had imparted, but to admit as much would have been to invite his ire, which already seemed to be squarely and unfairly focused on my person. A great many eyes turned toward me, some glittering with schadenfreude, others with a slight hope. I had known several of my fellow prisoners in the course of incarceration, our association had lead us to have certain expectations of one another. My dive from the deck of the Valiant would not have surprised all aboard, that much was certain. Lizzie would have cheered if she had seen me do it, and Martha the Wrestler too and no doubt Ursula, who maintained her innocence more stoically than anyone and had not smiled since receiving her sentence and learning that she was to leave behind three small children, even she might have lifted the corner of her mouth a little.
As the hush of expectation took hold, I realized that this moment was a defining one, not just for myself, but for all those who were forced to sail to foreign shores. If I were cowardly, they would be cowardly. If I was brave and in good spirits, perhaps they too would be brave and find some cheer. I had no illusions of leading a rebellion there in the belly of the beast, but I did recognize an opportunity to lift spirits.
“Beg your grace’s pardon,” I said, dropping into a sloshing curtsey. “I could not hear you over the sound of the private waterfall I have become.”
There were a few titters here and there, but for the most part silence reigned as eyes slid back towards Roake, waiting to see what he would do with my response.
We did not have to wait long for the answer. Again he came down the ship towards me, the predator prowling back towards the prey it had previously decided unworthy of biting. He reached for the keys at his belt and I felt sick to my very stomach as he unlocked my cell, drawing back the door in invitation. “Step out.”
I did not want to leave my iron cage. The cell that had so terrified me at the outset now seemed like a place of supreme security. But it was an order and I was not foolish enough to defy a direct order. As I stepped out, Roake took me harshly by the elbow and, striding back towards the stairs, forced me to trot after him in order to keep up with his longer legs.
In short order I found myself back on the deck of the Valiant as Roake made curt inquiries as to the location of my dress. In very short order the garment was procured, I know not from where. I thought I might then be free to go back to the cell and change myself, but it was not to be. With his grip still strong, Roake dragged me into a rather fine cabin and there released me to drip upon a hand knotted rug. “Remove your undergarments and don your dress,” he said, making an impatient gesture in my direction.
It was a clear order, but when it became apparent that he was not going to leave me in peace to change, I made protest. “I cannot undress with you present.”
“Nigh every man on the ship has seen the outline of your nether regions,” Roake said cruelly. “And I am sure many more have seen what lies under your petticoat.”
His insulting speech made me quite forget where I was. I drew myself up to my full height and gazed upon him venomously as I unleashed my ire without regard to common sense. “You are no gentleman to speak that way. No man has ever looked upon my person and you shall certainly not be the first, you scurrilous wretch, you blighted vermin. I pity the misfortune you must have endured to be what you are – a bully of women and a bounder to boot. You are, without a shadow of doubt, surely the most pernicious little wretch ever to set foot upon a ship. I pity all those forced to sail with you, for it is suffering to have to so much as look at you.” The words flowed with a certain poetic vitriol that took me over, relieving me of my good sense. When I was done with my tirade I found myself completely out of breath and I panted slightly as I waited to see what Roake would do with it.
With something of a cold chill I realized that he was regarding me with a sort of horror so profound that I thoroughly expected to be struck down where I stood. He moved towards me and I moved away directly, wishing to avoid that violent fate. “Do not flee, Miss Wilde, come and take the punishment you have so richly earned,” he snapped as he took me by the wrist and twisted me around so that I was vulnerable to the attentions of his palm, which he brought down in very short order against my buttocks.
It was not the blow I had expected to be sure, but the pain was sharp and exacerbated by the salty wet fabric that clung to my skin. He repeated the treatment several more times, putting the full strength of his arm into every blow. “You might be an intelligent, well bred prisoner, but you are a prisoner none the less,” he said, growling the words into my ear. “And your opinion of me could not be more irrelevant.”
He continued slapping me, forcing me towards the shameful boundary of crying out loud. “You do not know your place, but I will be glad to show you it,” he lectured, laying into my rear with the gusto of a glutton falling upon a cake.
I found myself dancing in place, holding back utterances of pain. I had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of showing that his ministrations hurt. He could strike me as much as his black heart desired, I would not be subdued. But oh did my buttocks flame as if placed over gently steaming coals. Even without an implement at his disposal, Roake was capable of truly fierce discipline.
“This is but a warning, as you seem to be in need of one,” he growled against my ear. “Next time you give that waspish tongue of yours free reign, I will not be this kind.”
Every word was punctuated with another slap, an intimate chastisement to be sure and one I deemed to be inappropriate. I could not complain without making an utterance of pain so I refrained from complaint altogether, but after a time I could not help muffled yelps that erupted against my closed lips. It was a devilish treatment to be sure and in spite of my attempts to pretend that he was making no impression on me, I leaped about like a spring lamb, almost tugging out of his grasp. He regained a hold of me quite easily, much to my despair, and it seemed an endless torment as his hard hand landed over and over, drying the seat of my skirts against my rear.
Finally, against my will I let out a squeal of pain. It hoped it would not be heard amidst the quick fire slapping, but Roake must have heard it well enough, for he released me directly and turned his back, speaking over his shoulder. “Get changed, Miss Wilde, before I retain the services of a cane.”
I hesitated, lest he turn to look at me in a state of undress, but then came to my senses and seized the moment. My wet clothing fell from my body with a slopping sound and I pulled the dress over my head directly. Being clothed in warm, dry, fabric made me feel better almost immediately, but the hot sting in my rear was very uncomfortable. There was a certain ache to it, a pulsing sensation as if my flesh were still under Roake’s iron palm. I took advantage of the master’s turned back and rubbed my poor rear until I felt a lessening of the heat and sting.
To his credit, Roake did not so much as peer over his shoulder until I informed him that I was ready. “I have changed, your honor,” I said, bestowing yet another title upon him.
He turned with that peculiar liquid grace, fixed me with a grim look and growled. “Mark my words, Miss Wilde, you had better think upon your attitude, for my arm will never grow tired.”
