Fire on Dark Water

by Wendy Perriman

  The toff peered anxiously, first at the child and then at his mistress and then at me. He inquired, “Where is the mother?”

  “Dead, sir” I replied. Then I launched into my monologue about selling flowers (explaining that there weren’t many this time of year) and how I couldn’t pay my lodging and couldn’t feed the child and I was all alone in the world and could the lovely lady find it in her heart to offer me some charity? The young woman nudged her companion and he dipped in his waistcoat to fish out a silver cob. My now-trained eyes spotted the bulge of a silk handkerchief, the chain of a pocketwatch, and the outline of a snuff box as I waited for the coin. The gang would have rich pickings. And while both heads were focused on his actions I plucked the beautiful gold chain from the lady’s wrist and tucked it inside the blanket. Dobby, who stood way behind in the mingling crowd, was urgently signaling me to move so I thanked the couple and scurried by. But before Janky and the others could act, my elbow was grabbed by a half-drunk man, and as I furiously tried to wiggle free, the grip just tightened and tightened.

  “Ow!” I complained, looking up at his red-rimmed eyes. “Get off me. . . .”

  It suddenly occurred to me this middle-aged man might be one of the City Watch, and when I saw his pole and lantern my heart froze. I wanted to drop the baby and flee but he’d now got an arm around my neck and was pinning me against his bony hip. I frantically looked for Dobby or Janky—to show me what to do, to help me out—but the crew had slickly spirited themselves off and I was apparently alone.

  The official shouted to the lady, “Ma’am, I believe you’re missing a bracelet.”

  The young woman instinctively felt for her empty wrist and cried, “Oh!”

  “I saw this little crook-thief lift it while she was begging.” The man from the Watch turned to me and demanded, “Where is it?” I blushed and clutched the stinking bundle closer to my chin. The gentleman stepped forward and struck me across the cheek with the side of his hand. I recoiled in shock and smarting. He angrily snatched the blanket from my chest and shook the contents to the ground. The dead child rolled at the lady’s feet, which made her flinch, step back, and moan as her gold chain tumbled into a crack between the cobblestones and was quickly retrieved by the official. He wiped it on his breeches and passed it back. He then pried the silver cob from my clutched fist and returned that to the toff. The gentleman was huffing and wheezing as if I’d committed some personal slight, while the young lady’s eyes were transfixed on the motionless baby sprawled by her boot. The watchman disdainfully picked up the corpse, wrapped it back in the blanket, and thrust it into my unwilling arms. “Would you care to press charges, sir?”

  “Most definitely,” came the curt reply. I’d obviously bruised his pride and ruined his afternoon jolly. He gave the official his name and address, then put his arm round his mistress’s quaking shoulders and steered her into an expensive furrier.

  I peered up at the mottled face and asked belligerently, “Can I go now?”

  He sneered and roared, “The only place you’re going is the roundhouse.”

  “I . . . I ain’t going nowhere with you. . . .” I pushed the bundle at him and tried to run the other way, but before I’d got a couple of steps he’d caught one of my wrists in a thick hemp noose and swiftly tied it to the other behind my back. Then he steered me through the crowd like a fractious donkey, rolling the floppy baby along the street with his feet.

  The watchman stopped at a butcher’s stall and pointed to the macabre ball, now twisted and covered in mud. “Benny, get rid of this, will you!” he instructed. The butcher looked down in the gutter and nodded. Then I was prodded off toward the constable’s cell where I spent the night in the airless, crowded roundhouse with the rest of the careless caught that day.

  On the morrow I stood before a justice of the peace and was told I’d be sent for trial because there was some measure of deceit and cunning in my failed ruse. So for the next few nights I was one of the small guests at Newgate, where I slid into the wretched shadow and willed myself invisible. Word spread round I was one of Dya’s Odji so everyone knew to leave well alone. But my fate at the Old Bailey was a different matter—especially when they realized I was Romany.

  See, the gorgios take us for wayward rogues and lump us together with the Jews. Some say we’re cannibals or occultists, that we live ungodly lives. Happen they’re frightened by our clay-dark cheeks and exotic, secret language, or maybe they’re intimidated by strong sensual men and lithe, seductive women? Perhaps they envy the gaiety and freedom, but we ain’t no more lazy or unclean than any others—although we do have to poach, beg, and scam sometimes—and we’re probably far less promiscuous. Still, they can’t get rid of us or make us conform to their government. And every year we come back stronger . . . proud and wild and defiant.

  The judge was some pinched-face aristocrat who wanted to scapegoat London’s Black Guard and its gypsy gangs in particular. He said, in his most disdainful manner, the fact I’d used a dead baby showed strong evidence of malice, and the expense of the item I filched had put a noose round my neck because incorrigibles over seven years of age could be executed at Her Majesty’s pleasure. My blood set solid as I stood, and understood. Then the grim judge added that I might be made useful if retrained for colonial labor and ruled that, “In order to break this gang of rogues it is necessary to transport this child—young as she is—to America for seven years.”

  I’d got no appeal against servitude in the New World . . . and so that was that.

  2

  SOGGY SKIES DRIPPED DOWN

  SPRING, 1712

  The fog was a proper pea-souper that last day in London. I was somewhere up front of our coffle as we marched through the steamy streets from Newgate to Wapping Stairs—first stage in banishment to the New World. At the docks it seemed like hundreds of prisoners were cramped aboard a few sturdy lighters, and the men were made to row down the Thames to a transport ship that would sail northabout through the mouth of Pentland Firth, and then across the Atlantic Ocean to Chesapeake Bay. Punishment had begun.

  I was youngest aboard our barge. For most of the passage I sat shackled between an old salt called Charlie (convicted of murder in a drunken brawl)—and a woman I later learned had poisoned her husband. Charlie talked in rhythm with his heaving oar. He nudged my arm with his elbow and whispered, “What’re you doing here, love?”

  I swallowed hard and looked up into his mottled face. His breath stank of rancid grease but his eyes gazed keenly from beneath haystack brows and he flashed me a tallow-stub grin. I turned to his ear and confided my sin. He nodded and continued pulling on the strain. The river was a floating carnival of mayhem crammed with small ships and boats of every description, each trying to nudge its way in or out of the tidal flow. A jumble of bowsprits, sails, and cargo floated on mist, and leathery voices blasted from every direction. I ain’t never been on water before so my stomach tossed and lilted with each dip, until the bile pitched into my throat and I struggled to swallow the acrid taste. My face turned from brown to white to pasty, and globules of sweat stuck my rump to the bench. Charlie looked across and said sagely, “You’ll soon find your sea legs, to be sure.” Somewhere at the other end of the craft a whip cracked, bit flesh, and was met with a sickening groan. The wielder roared several variants of, “Pull, you lazy, worthless bastards!” until the rowers found harmony and slid us haphazardly into the mainstream. And as we edged through the shrouded city Charlie whispered our position at various spots on that bumpy drag out to sea.

  By the time we reached Greenwich the mist had cleared sufficiently to reveal the palace, but I didn’t see nothing on account of my head being between my knees the entire time. I swear my cheeks were tinged green, and I’d have given anything to be on land again. So I curled over my knees, hugged my frail stomach, and willed the swaying world to stop tipping and rest. I glanced up past the marshy fringes at Woolwich and saw lighter-men loading wool onto vessels, then I didn’t look out ag
ain until we arrived on the north bank at Tilbury. Our boats were steered to the fort where we disembarked at the water gate to wait out the changing tide. Women were separated from men, then hurriedly stripped and scrubbed at with the end of a horse-broom dunked in a scummy tub of water. They took our street clothes to burn, refitting the men in slops and shirts, and the women in coarse itchy shifts. My shapeless dress was way too big so I rolled up the sleeves and used a piece of twine as a belt to secure it to my frame. Then we were given a tepid ox soup with biscuit, and a welcomed pint of ale that helped quell my heaving guts. They locked us in the courtyard and instructed us to rest while we could. And by then I was feeling quite dozy so soon fell into slumber.

  We were roused by the snapping of thong leather above our skulls before being poked like obstinate cattle back on to the lighters. At Gravesend someone pointed out the church where an Indian princess was supposed to be buried, and then we made ready to rendezvous with the transport ship—the Argyll—that was anchored offshore, waiting to tender us aboard in small clutches. We’d be sailing via North Britain because a running ship like ours (sailing without a convoy) sought to avoid the enemy privateers that infested the lower English Channel.

  The men were taken off first, so by the time I arrived in the female section belowdecks it was apparent this new wooden realm was some morbid visitation from hell. Now, I thought I’d seen as bad as things got in the days I’d crunched lice with my bare feet on the sewer-soaked flagstones of Newgate—but believe me, you ain’t never seen nothing more rotten than this demonic place. There were twenty-odd crewmen for two hundred felons—mostly men—who were stuffed in a hole on ledges like mackerel in a pail. They were shackled in pairs, wrists and ankles, with long chains reeved through the bilboes around their legs that allowed them to wiggle as far as the nearest mess-tub. For feeding and cleaning they were brought up on deck, but for much of the journey they lay on each other in darkness and stench until disease or despair overwhelmed their senses and prompted either a stoic acceptance or some rash and foolhardy vengeance. Those who survived the twelve-week ordeal were destined to sweat as sons of toil on faraway plantations, but that portion of cargo who succumbed to blackness were hastily thrown overboard to feed the waiting jaws. And they were considered the lucky ones.

  The thirty or so women were dealt with differently. We were unchained and locked in a separate pen, where we at least could stand and move about—apparently we were to be kept healthy or there wouldn’t be no takers. Eventually the seasickness subsided and the nights slipped into an endless routine of sleeping and aching and groaning and sorrow, broken only by cruel dreams and crueler weather. Most mornings we were all brought up on deck to be washed and inspected for illness before being fed our meager rations, then some would be set to cleaning and sewing for the crew, while others found ways to exercise limbs, tongues, and wits. The men were taken back late afternoon, and until the boatswain’s bells signaled the end of the first dogwatch the women became the entertainment. I quickly confirmed that (alongside the cabin boy) I was the only other youngster, so it didn’t take long to find a way to be granted my run of the ship.

  Now, I ain’t never been very political, mister—but I have to entreat you historians not to overlook the white slave trade too. Alongside the transported felons, there were thousands of poor Europeans also forced into indentured servitude long before the Africans arrived. You ask the Irish Catholics, or indigent Scottish, or the poor folks of Liverpool—about the deceitful advertisements—the soldiers and press gangs—and the crooked judges who weighed their destinies on plantations in sugar and rice. If and when they finally managed to earn freedom they became a financial nuisance to those casting greedy eyes from state to state. Of course, some folks did make it back to England absolved of debt or past crime—but most stayed enmeshed in familiar drudgery because they were too worn and broken.

  The first time we saw daylight must have been three days into the journey once we were way out of sight of land. But down in the belly of the monster, tentative shipmates were already forming. I was adopted by three kindly trollops who’d been caught in the midst of a blackmailing scam—Violet, Maude, and Dollie. They instantly squashed any unfair play made by others on account of my age, and wouldn’t allow no bullying. And although they were all in their early twenties, Violet was apparently the ringleader. She was dainty and thin, with straw-colored hair that hung in ringlets down past her waist. Men often mistook her wispy blue eyes as innocent but her mind and frame were supple as a horny cat. Maude was a Yorkshire lass with straight dark locks and a wavy figure, while Dollie had shorter brown curls, apple red cheeks, and the Cockney sense of adventure. Maude and Dollie knew many of the popular tunes and were ever humming and whistling, while Violet pined for the country dances she’d known before landing in Whitechapel. She thought some tar might have brought bagpipes on board, and promised that when she got a chance she’d teach me her fancy footwork (if I showed some of my own moves in return). The three pals tried to stay cheerful—painting the darkness in gallows humor and pretending we weren’t all about to be sold—while I asked any who’d answer what they thought would become of us. But none could lie sufficient enough to lend me a brighter truth.

  When the morning watch began, we were prodded on deck. The men were chained in strands to ringbolts, but the women were able to meander at will. Most of us stayed hugged on the starboard or port sides, but the few with prior attachments ran the gauntlet of groping hands and eyes to find fathers, partners, brothers, or sons. Barrels of saltwater allowed us to wash before being inspected by the callous surgeon. When it came to my turn he roughly grabbed my face in his bony hand and stared scarily into my eyes. I’d to open my mouth, lift up my arms, and stand patiently while he rummaged in my hair looking for spots, scabs, or fleas. Then we lined up, wooden bowls at the ready, to receive the watery oatmeal and chewy bread. Some of the prisoners were ordered to work and seemed grateful for the diversion, but being left to my own company I instantly set off exploring.

  Every view from the creaking ship showed open water. The sea spread out to the edges of forever, gray and crinkled and shiny. I breathed in the chill, fishy air, filling my lungs to eradicate the stink of belowdecks, glad to have finally settled my stomach. The sky was crowded with surly clouds that threatened to keep the sun at bay, but I liked the throb of the wind on my neck as it billowed round my hair in tune with the sails. Then some hardmouthed sailors told us it was time to exercise and they made everyone leap and jump to avoid their brutal whips. I didn’t mind, being glad to stretch my muscles, but some of the women were unimpressed and a lot of the men spat curses under their breaths. I caught a quick glance at Charlie stumbling in chains, trying to remember some lively steps. He winked when he saw me, then carried on prancing—it was probably the first time he’d ever tried dancing the hornpipe sober. Those who cooperated and didn’t cause no bother were rewarded with chewing tobacco or beer. The wan sun appeared briefly just as the afternoon mess was being served, but the men were taken back below before they could enjoy it. And now that there was much more room to be had the women came out from the shadows, and a few of the coarser slatterns began baiting the jack-tars above on the quarterdeck. I watched in fascination to see what would happen.

  One of the sailors brought out a fiddle and as the screeching notes bounced round the bulwarks many of the younger women started swaying. The older dames stood round the edges, clapping, nodding (or expressing their disgust) while most of the crew stood on the platform above and watched from behind the heavily armed wooden barricado. Violet saw me leaning against the foremast and eagerly beckoned me to come join the girls. She showed me some morris dancing, bounding around with enthusiastic skips and jumps, and when Dollie and Maude recognized one of the tunes they got several of the spectators to join in the chorus. For the first time in months I began to relax, losing myself in the scraped, poignant melodies. Then the fiddler began a familiar gypsy ballad and I fell into an old dance I th
ought I’d forgotten. Now, it ain’t easy being elegant in a baggy shift, but as I closed my eyes my spirit swam free with the mermaids, and smoldering hope relit in my soul. This was my own personal freedom.

  When the last note floated away on the wake I realized everyone had stopped to watch me. Violet yelled, “Give us another one, Lola,” and the fiddle struck up once again. About halfway through this routine the predators descended the steps and began edging in on the women, offering them swigs of rum, and before long, the deck resembled a tavern. Just as I finished twirling, a rough arm grabbed me round the waist and pulled me onto a waiting knee. A clean-shaven man with a powder-burned face had taken a liking and was trying to kiss me, and the more I tried to squirm away the more urgent his slobbers became. Then suddenly Maude appeared and said, “Hello, handsome.” She mashed her breasts up against his cheek and lulled, “Wouldn’t you rather have a proper woman, darling? I’ll show you a real good time.” He pushed me away absentmindedly and dragged Maude off under the rigging.

  On top of the stairs the quartermaster glowered at the scene from inside his fiery whiskers. He paced back and forth, growling orders at some less than able seaman. I scurried back to Dollie and Violet, at the same time that two eager tars appeared to stake their claims. Violet pushed me behind her back and hissed, “Go hide yourself. Quick!” Then she turned to the drooling crewmen and wiggled provocatively to provide a suitable distraction. I fell to the planks and scooted on all fours behind the water barrel into the shaded part of the deck, where I peered through a tangle of rope and tackle to determine a safe enough spot. The longboats! As cautiously as possible I crept round to the edge of the pile of overturned vessels and wiggled myself underneath the nearest edge.