Chapter 16

 

The boat jerked along as the oarsmen guided it toward a dozen mastless vessels sitting like huge ducks with heads buried in the shallow water. The hulks loomed before Nathaniel as he glanced wistfully back at the docks, envying the men who were busily engaged there, free to do as they wished.

A lavish carriage drew to a halt at the edge of the wharf, causing Nathaniel to clench his jaw. He had no doubt as to the owner of that conveyance. Though he could not make out the golden crest emblazoned on each door, he knew that the duke and Clifton had come to watch the final nail being driven into the coffin they had prepared for him.

“Is this yer first time in such a place?” asked another prisoner, a man with a black patch over one eye. Five convicts crowded the small boat, along with an armed guard and two oarsmen. The prisoners could overpower the three guards easily enough, Nathaniel knew, except they were double-ironed and unlikely to do anything to cause their own drowning.

When Nathaniel nodded, the stranger laughed. “If yer like most newcomers, ye’ll fall sick inside a year.”

Nathaniel was not impressed. He shrugged, but offered no retort.

“See this eye? I lost it in a fight aboard the Warrior. That’s ‘er, five hulls down. The fightin’ gets pretty rough.” He grinned. “A one-armed man would ‘ave reason ter fear.”

“Not if you were me.” Nathaniel gave him a scorching stare, refusing to be intimidated, and eventually the man turned to the prisoner on his other side.

“Ye ‘ave reason to fear, too. Ye look no older than a lad. Once it’s dark, the big men who’ve been around awhile prefer lads like you with fair ‘air and blue eyes.”

Nathaniel nearly laughed aloud at One-eye’s bully tactics, except that they weren’t funny. He was entering a whole new world, one less than a mile from the life he knew, yet oceans apart. No one escaped from the hulks, except through death. Whether that was because of the chains they wore, or the despair that weakened both mind and body, Nathaniel did not know.

He’d have to reserve his strength and be alert for any opportunity. Greystone and Clifton had not seen the last of him. Somehow he would survive.

Squinting up at the prison barges, Nathaniel grimaced. The place smelled worse than a common lodging house. The tide was out, leaving the hulks sitting in mud for ten hours out of every twenty-four. With the marshes nearby and a pond the tide reached only during winter, there was no flux to carry away the stagnant water. The smell of dead animals combined with the stench of the waste dumped off the ships to create a cesspool that reeked for miles around.

The ships were rotting, that much he could tell, but what really concerned him was that the prisoners inside them probably fared no better.

Swatting at a fly buzzing near his neck, Nathaniel watched one of the rowers jam his oar into the muddy water to steer the boat toward one of three large vessels clustered together.

The name Retribution was painted in faded red letters on the side of the first hull. Nathaniel knew the moment he saw it that he had arrived at his new home.

The men with the oars laid them down, and together with the guard, steadied a rope ladder that dangled before them. Then the shackled prisoners climbed slowly aboard.

The Retribution had originally been a thirty-two-gun ship captured from the Spanish, Nathaniel heard One-eye boast. But it was a hellish place now. Only splintered stubs remained where masts had towered into the sky. The wheel was gone, and the deck, once polished and clean, lay beneath grime at least an inch thick. Vermin droppings filled every nook and cranny, evidence that the prisoners had ample company.

Instinctively Nathaniel raised his eyes to the sky. Thick clouds covered the descending sun, but gold, purple, and magenta hues shimmered through. He was relieved to see horizon. That, at least, remained unchanged.

A man who referred to himself as the overseer, and another named Sampson, who held the designation of clerk, met the new prisoners. The overseer was obviously the man with supreme authority; Nathaniel soon learned he did not live on the ship, but came at sunrise and left at sunset each day. The clerk appeared to be a fellow prisoner who enjoyed a certain measure of power and greater freedom on the ship than his companions.

While the prisoners were temporarily unshackled, Sampson demanded they strip and bathe in a tub, which had been delivered by other convicts. By the time it was Nathaniel’s turn to step into the cold water, it was black from the grease and dirt of the previous four bathers. He desperately longed to scrub the grime from his body, but he could hardly force himself to step into the filthy water.

Except that he knew he had no choice.

Once Nathaniel had bathed, no matter how profitless the ritual, the clerk provided him with a coarse gray jacket and breeches. Fortunately, they were clean. Two other prisoners were given used garments that looked as though they hadn’t been washed since their last wearing. When one man dared to object, Sampson grabbed a pistol from the nearest guard and shoved it in his mouth.

“Dead men don’t know if their clothes are clean or dirty,” he warned. “Given a day or two, they’ll look no different anyhow.”

The glitter in the clerk’s eyes betrayed his eagerness to enforce his words. The prisoner pulled on the garments without another word while Nathaniel wondered who or what gave Sampson his power.

When leg irons were once again fastened about their ankles, the overseer spoke. “If you obey without question, work hard, and keep to yourselves, you will be left alone. Anyone who attempts to escape, or cause insurrection, will be eliminated immediately. Life here is just that simple.” Turning to Sampson, he added, “Have them join the others. I’ll be in my cabin. I’m starving.”

Though Nathaniel had expected the worst, he was still surprised by the appearance of the three hundred and fifty men who already lived aboard the Retribution. They were a lean, sickly lot, with scraggly beards itching with lice, and many wore only rags. Some had no shirt, shoes, or stockings.

They stood at attention for a brief ceremony, which consisted of Sampson reading the rules and the punishment affixed to each infraction. The rules were long and varied, but the punishment was always the same: flogging, flogging, and more flogging. Then the prisoners filed below for their evening meal.

The dining room contained nothing but wooden tables and benches. No cleaner than the deck, it was dank and smelled strongly of mildew. Four portholes shed just enough light to lend a hazy glow to the room, much like smoke in a tavern. The lanterns that hung overhead cast dim circles on the floor that moved as the hull rocked.

With only ten tables, the men had to eat in shifts. The bulk of the prisoners were herded beyond the dining room into the sleeping areas. Nathaniel and the other new convicts were allowed to join the first shift.

Nathaniel was famished and more than eager to receive his meal—until he saw what it was. A detestable souplike substance called “smiggings,” it was made from boiled beef thickened with barley and was served in a tine bowl. The smell alone nauseated him. The others ate ravenously, but Nathaniel’s soup went untouched, and again he felt the clerk’s eyes upon him.

“If you got any brains, you’ll eat,” Sampson said, moving closer to Nathaniel from where he had stood along the periphery with the guards. “There’s nothing else coming till morning. As you can see, the others have figured it out. They’re bloody smart, eh?”

While Nathaniel was momentarily distracted from his rancid dinner, the prisoner next to him grabbed for his bowl and slurped up his soup, letting the juice dribble down his chin.

Watching him made Nathaniel’s skin crawl. He was locked up with animals, no longer of a sound state of mind.

Before his lump of bread could be stolen as well, he closed his mind to the taste of mold and forced himself to both chew and swallow. Sampson was right about one thing: he had to eat to keep up his strength, or he would end up no different than the rest of them.

From dark until ten, the men were left to pass the time as they would. Split between three decks and six wards, they were allowed free range only in their own small areas, and many loitered about, visiting or causing trouble.

Nathaniel stretched out on the hammock that had been assigned to him, struggling to block out the constant rattle of chains and hum of voices. What now? Had the duke captured Trenton and the Vengeance as well? Or was his first mate free to collect the guns and take them to the Lord High Admiral?

If only he knew. If only he could communicate with Trenton.

“My son.”

Nathaniel raised his eyes at the soft-spoken voice to see a chaplain standing above him.

“I am Reverend Hartman. I offer classes each night that might provide you with some solace. It would please me to have you join us. It could make the transition here easier for you.”

Shaking his head, Nathaniel almost rejected the invitation, then thought better of it. Here was someone who was neither prisoner nor guard. Clergymen were privy to a wealth of information, and it could only help him to understand how things were run in this strange new world—and by whom. Coming to his feet, Nathaniel said, “Anything is better than sitting here, Father.”

Pleased at recruiting another member to his flock, the Reverend Hartman led Nathaniel to a corner of the ward where a handful of men waited with open Bibles. Though most couldn’t read, the reverend performed that service aloud, and Nathaniel was glad he had joined the group if for no other reason than to enjoy the peace it provided against the bawdy songs and activities of the others.

When the chaplain finally closed his book and the group dissipated, Nathaniel took the opportunity to strike up a conversation with him. “I was hoping you could enlighten me on a few subjects.”

The chaplain started stacking the Bibles on a corner shelf. “Of course. What would you like to know?”

“The clerk is dressed like a prisoner, but he doesn’t act like one. Who is he?”

Reverend Hartman’s manner changed instantly. He glanced about before answering, “It’s best to steer clear of him. He’s a prisoner, but he works for the overseer.”

“Why is it he has no chains, and fares so much better than the rest of us?”

“He is a cruel and dangerous man. I suggest you stay well away.” The reverend changed the subject: “You don’t speak like a prisoner; I would guess you are an educated man.”

“Self-educated, mostly.”

“What did you do to arrive here?”

“I’m not sure what the final charge was.” Nathaniel shrugged off the question. He wasn’t here to talk about himself.

“I’d be curious to learn the details sometime,” the reverend answered. “But they’re setting the watch now. You’d better get back to your bunk.”

The watch consisted of several seasoned prisoners who sat up through the night with a light burning. They relieved each other every two hours and were supposed to ensure that no one spoke or moved about, but bribes and favors rendered the watch ineffective. And Nathaniel heard many suspicious moans and groans and other things that kept him on his guard, making sleep impossible.

* * *

Like some mythical dragon that snorts and shifts as it descends into a comfortable sleep, the Greystone residence took some time to settle in for the night. Alexandra waited, listening to the movements of those servants who still worked in the nether regions of the house, banking fires, polishing silver, or putting away the plate. Tomorrow morning would come all too soon, and with it her tiresome responsibilities as maid. She had to take advantage of every opportunity to seek information on Nathaniel.

As those around her snored softly, she climbed from her bed and tiptoed to the stairs, grateful when no one stirred, not even her bedmate. The stairs creaked as she made her way down though, and Alexandra was certain the racket could be heard all over the house. She feared Mrs. Wright would be waiting for her by the time she reached the bottom, but when she entered the kitchen, it was dark save for the moonlight streaming in at the windows.

The duke and his two children were out for the evening. Alexandra knew Lady Anne had gone to a dinner party somewhere—the other servants had mentioned it—but she had no idea what had called Lord Clifton and his father away, or when they’d come home. She only hoped it wouldn’t be now.

Heading through the green baize door that separated the servants’ domain from that of Greystone’s family, she checked to make sure the front of the house was equally quiet.

Evidently Lady Anne had already returned and retired, as no one waited up for her. Perhaps the duke and Lord Clifton had returned as well. A footman sat in a room off the entry playing solitaire, but Alexandra knew he’d be there all night, just as he was every night, to guard against thieves and the like.

The glow from the footman’s candle spilled out of the room he occupied, giving her just enough light to slip by without banging into anything.

As she started up the winding staircase, the plush carpet muffled her movements, allowing her to make quick progress. But when she reached the second floor, she had to travel more slowly. The darkness in the long halls on either side was now complete, and she feared she’d bump into a table or a what-not shelf and knock some priceless porcelain to the ground.

Greystone’s study overlooked the front gardens, but the heavy draperies blocked most of the moon’s light. As soon as Alexandra entered, she shut the door and began to fumble through the room, looking for a candleholder.

A moment later she found a lamp on the desk. Sulfur matches sat beside it in a cold, smooth container.

The match Alexandra struck flared with a blue light, then faded to yellow as she held it to the wick of the lamp before replacing the cover.

The duke’s study held a large mahogany desk, a high-backed leather chair, a card table, and several smaller chairs. A picture hung on the wall above the desk. A man astride a horse. Likely the duke in his younger years, Alexandra decided. She recognized the slight flare to his nostrils, the chiseled planes of his face. These features were very much like Nathaniel’s, but the resemblance ended there. Greystone’s eyes were more green than blue, and his hair was brown, not the ebony color of his firstborn son’s.

Various documents cluttered the duke’s desk. Alexandra rounded it to stand between desk and chair as she dug through the pile, examining every item. Most of what she saw related to business: bills of lading, bills for household expenses, letters from associates or friends, a few legal documents—nothing that had any obvious connection to Nathaniel.

She sighed and glanced about the room again. How could she find out what had happened to him? There had to be some way, short of visiting every gaol and—Alexandra shivered—undertaker.

The sound of a cough coming from the hall outside made Alexandra freeze. Someone was coming. Quickly raising the glass of the lamp, she blew out the light. Her mind searched frantically for what she should do, but there was no time to do anything. The floor creaked and the doorknob turned as she ducked beneath the duke’s desk.

The light of a candle flame glowed in the darkness as footsteps crossed the room toward her.

Alexandra squeezed her eyes shut, praying she wouldn’t be discovered, and pressed back as far as she could against the smooth underside of her wooden haven.

The footsteps stopped on the other side of the desk. She heard the rattle of paper above her, then a loud belch.

“Damn cook.”

It was the duke. It had to be. Alexandra would have recognized Clifton’s voice immediately.

More rummaging, and a bit of cursing. Then Greystone seemed to discover whatever it was he was looking for and fell silent for a while, as though reading.

“Good,” he mumbled, grunting in satisfaction, and the steps and the light began to recede.

Alexandra held her breath until the duke was gone. She hadn’t realized she was shaking, but she could hardly stand as the acrid scent of Greystone’s candle lingered, covering the smell of her own lamp and reminding her of just how close she’d come to making herself his new target.

Waiting until her eyes adjusted to the meager moonlight, Alexandra looked around the study a final time. She sorted more carefully through the duke’s correspondence, squinting to make out who had written him, then rifled through his drawers until she encountered a locked metal box.

Judging from its weight, the box held nothing more valuable than a few legal documents, but the fact that it was locked intrigued her. She padded quietly to the door, which the duke had left standing wide, and closed it. Then she returned to the desk and picked up a marble paperweight to smash the lock.

She stood close to the window to afford herself what light she could, and glanced through what appeared to be love letters. Fierce protestations of undying devotion and lewd invitations written in torrents of misspelled words and incorrect grammar covered sheet after sheet of cheap foolscap. Only one was written on expensive stationary by a woman who appeared to be educated. It came all the way from Scotland and was signed “Ellyne.” Alexandra soon realized she was reading the words of Lord Clifton and Lady Anne’s mother.

 

My children beg me to come back to England and yet I have never received a single letter from you. Not even the apology I so deserve or a thank you for holding my tongue. In my more generous moments, I think guilt keeps you so remote. But that must be the beginning of my dementia speaking. I have lost all of my hair and too much weight, but the sores have gone for now. When I am strong enough to be honest with myself I know you do not care that you brought such a fate home to me. You had to have your doxies, and they had to be of the most common variety, didn’t they?

Yet I gave you the son you wanted and, for my children’s sake, say nothing of your trips to the Greentree Tavern and others like it. I bet you thought I didn’t know where you went at night. More’s the pity... I didn’t know until it was too late. Still, I want to tell you this: my revenge is knowing that you will soon follow me. We can’t live forever; Your Grace, and so, I hope someday to see you burning in the fiery furnaces of hell. Just as you deserve.

 

Alexandra blinked as she absorbed the meaning of the flowing script. Was it syphilis? Had the duke given his wife syphilis? Anger and pity nearly brought tears to her eyes for the women who had been destroyed by Nathaniel’s father, and for Lady Anne and Lord Clifton, and much more poignantly, for Nathaniel.

Daring to light the lamp again, Alexandra used a sheet of the duke’s own stationary to pen a letter to Trenton. Perhaps it was time Greystone received a measure of his own medicine.

* * *

The guards woke Nathaniel at dawn for a breakfast of boiled barley. Though the meal would not have been considered edible anywhere else, Nathaniel hungrily swallowed the tasteless gruel, noting as he did the absence of so much as a crust of bread. Evidently rations aboard the hulks were scantier than he had anticipated. He wondered at the possibility of receiving a second serving, but as he glanced at the empty bowls of the other men, he saw that no one asked.

“Can we have more?” he asked the prisoner seated next to him.

Small-boned, with a gray, wispy beard and sunken eyes, the man looked almost like a sage, except for the long scar that disfigured his cheek. He studied Nathaniel dubiously. “You can ask, if you want to go without for the rest of the day. Bloody Sampson spends the government’s money on pig slop—and gives us less than a child’s ration at that—so he can pocket the difference.”

“Now, that’s a serious charge,” the clerk interrupted, suddenly bearing down on them. “Haven’t you learned to control your tongue yet, Joseph? After five years in this stinkin’ place?”

Joseph cowered in Sampson’s presence. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it! I swear.”

“Perhaps it’s time to show our one-armed man what happens to those who make trouble. Come on, Old Joe. You first.”

“But you know me, sir,” Joseph cried. “I’m harmless enough. Just an old man, minding his business.”

“Didn’t sound as though you were minding your business to me.” Sampson motioned to a guard, who grabbed Joseph by the shirt front and hauled him up. “It’s time for a flogging, boys!”

Everyone poured out of the mess hall behind Nathaniel, Joseph, and those who pulled them both along. Unable to keep up with the quick pace of the guards because of the shackles on his feet, Joseph fell and received a kick in the ribs for his folly.

“Get up, coward!” Sampson raged, drawing back for a blow to the head.

Nathaniel grasped Sampson’s fist in his hand. “Give him a minute.”

The other prisoners stared at them, mouths agape, as silence fell over the room like a blanket.

“Touch me again and you’re a dead man,” Sampson threatened, spittle wetting his lips.

Nathaniel’s eyes met those of the clerk, and he refused to look away. Finally Sampson pulled his hand back and turned to the guards. “Give Joseph double the usual for this man’s interference. And give One-arm double as well. He’ll soon learn what I will tolerate and what I won’t.”

The flogging triangle was connected to what used to be the main mast. Though not particularly large or threatening in looks, it waited ominously while the other prisoners formed a tight circle around Nathaniel, Joseph, Sampson, and a single guard.

The guard removed Joseph’s shirt and tied his hands and feet to the triangle, then made ready with the cat-o’-nine.

“No, please!” Joseph jerked as the first lash struck his bare skin, causing several welts to appear.

Nathaniel cringed at the sight, trying to block the other man’s cries from his mind, but they seemed to echo off the sky.

Most of the prisoners watched with disinterest, as though a flogging were such a common occurrence as to warrant little or no attention, but others seemed to enjoy the spectacle. Some even encouraged the guard to continue when he finally stopped.

Only the chaplain showed any empathy for Joseph’s suffering. He stood with a pained expression on his face throughout the ordeal.

When it was over, Sampson took hold of the whip to administer Nathaniel’s blows himself. “This will teach you some respect, Cripple,” he said. “You think I haven’t noticed your haughty attitude? It certainly won’t last long around here.”

A guard began to remove Nathaniel’s shirt, but Nathaniel jerked away and took it off himself. A bewhiskered man tied his arm and both feet to the triangle as Sampson shook out the nine thongs of the whip.

Pain exploded across Nathaniel’s back as the clerk dealt him a hearty blow. But he was ready. He gritted his teeth and focused his thoughts on other things, imagining Alexandra standing beside him, looking on. He would not want her to see them break him. For her, he would not cry out... or beg for mercy. He would endure his punishment like a man, and when it was all over, she would comfort him by kissing his eyelids closed and pressing her small, cool hands to his burning cheeks. Alexandra could ease the pain. Oh God, where was she?

Soon something trickled down Nathaniel’s back, and he knew it must be blood. Only the thought of Alexandra watching gave him the strength to stand, the will to endure until silence replaced the roar of the crowd. Finally Sampson stopped and threw down the whip, and Nathaniel slumped, letting himself dangle, at last, from the ropes that held him.

“It’s time for work,” Sampson announced. “Get these animals ashore and stacking shot at the arsenal before they think this man’s some kind of hero. And put One-Arm here in solitary confinement.”

The clerk stomped away, and Nathaniel felt a small sense of victory. Alexandra would have been proud of him. The flogging hadn’t given Sampson the satisfaction he’d been looking for—and he and the clerk both knew it.

* * *

On the surface, Alexandra’s second day went very much the same as her first, except that the duke was about the house. Fear that he would soon discover the broken lock on his metal box left Alexandra edgy. So did her apprehension that the milkman would not deliver her message to Trenton, as he had agreed. What if Mr. Donaldson read her words, or didn’t bother to keep his bargain? Worse, what if he betrayed her to the duke?

She hauled water, beat rugs, blackened the stove, and cut vegetables for Cook before sitting down to a light dinner, but her thoughts were always on Greystone—and Nathaniel. She remembered the pirate captain standing on the deck of his ship, the wind whipping his hair, the smell of his clothes, the warmth of him sleeping beside her, the rich sound of his voice... and feared she’d go mad with worry and longing if she didn’t find him soon. She’d had to break the lock, and she’d had to trust the milkman. For Nathaniel, she’d take the same risks again.

After dinner Alexandra began to scrub the kitchen floor, only to be interrupted by the robust form of Mrs. Wright.

“His Grace and Lord Clifton would like to see you,” the housekeeper said, a slight frown on her face. “They’re in the study.”

Alexandra’s heart felt as though it came to a sudden, skidding stop. The box! Had he discovered her tampering? “Lady Anne mentioned me to them?” she asked hopefully.

“Must have. A new hire doesn’t warrant much of their attention. They usually leave that sort of thing to me.”

Alexandra rushed up to the attic to improve her appearance as best she could, then headed to the second floor. The memory of snooping in the duke’s study made her cheeks burn, but she paused to collect herself before knocking timidly at the door.

“Come in.” The voice belonged to the duke, but it was Lord Clifton who stood and came toward her when she entered.

“Alexandra.” He gave her a congenial smile.

“You’re looking fit, my lord,” she replied.

Greystone sat at his desk, scratching something into a thick black book. He looked up at their exchange, put his pen in its well, and leaned back in his chair. His eyes traveled slowly from her feet to her white mobcap.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Alexandra blinked in surprise. “You sent for me, Your Grace.”

“I mean, what are you doing in my house?”

“I—I’m working off the dress I took from your daughter, Your Grace.”

His eyes narrowed. “My son tells me you have some connection to Nathaniel.”

“No connection, Your Grace. I was abducted against my will. The pirate mistook me for your daughter, Lady Anne.”

Now that they were face-to-face, the duke’s gaze proved more unsettling than Alexandra had anticipated. His eyes were shaped like Nathaniel’s, but where the pirate captain’s were vibrant, filled with unspeakable passion, Greystone’s were devoid of any warmth. Still, the flesh and blood version of the man resembled Nathaniel much more than his picture had. The square cut of his chin, the high cheekbones, even the arch of his brows were all familiar, except that the duke was a much smaller man.

Alexandra shivered. Greystone had tried to murder his own son. He had succeeded in killing the housekeeper who had saved Nathaniel. And he’d brought syphilis home to his wife. Alexandra’s intuition backed everything she had ever heard about him, and she knew then that the duke’s heart had to be as hard as the flinty look in his eyes.

He pressed his fingertips together. “What brought you here?”

“Once Nathaniel released me, I tried to find work as a seamstress. But I had no luck. I had nowhere else to go, and I thought”—she paused and glanced at Lord Clifton—”I thought perhaps I could work off the dress I took from Lady Anne. At least I’d have a roof over my head.”

The duke stood and positioned his hands on the desk as he leaned forward. “I see. And, of course, you have no contact with Nathaniel Kent or his cohorts now.”

Alexandra had the uncanny feeling that Greystone could see right through her. “No. But I know where they are,” she said, hoping to improve her credibility.

Lord Clifton spoke impetuously. “We already have Nath—”

“Jake!” The duke slammed his fist on the desk and gave his son a silencing glare. Then he turned his attention back to her. “Where?”

“I overheard them talking. They were going to Newcastle.”

“See, Father? After everything he did to her, why would she sympathize with him? Though I daresay, I think he was a bit taken with her.”

“A mere needlewoman? How quaint.” Greystone sat back in his chair and picked up a clean quill, twirling the nib in his mouth. “You can go back to your work,” he told her, “but remember one thing: you’ll be sorry if you’re lying. I shall be watching every move you make. And you do not want to make an enemy of me.”