Taming the Wilde (7 page)

Morrow happened to wander past at that point and flickered a small sympathetic wink in my direction, which made me smile in spite of myself. It struck me that I should have a much more enjoyable time aboard the Valiant if Captain Morrow were in charge of discipline and Roake were stowed somewhere down below for the duration.

“Do you have a reason to be smiling, Miss Wilde?” Roake's eyes were narrowed at me in an expression of displeasure that boded ill for my person. His jaw was set in the hard line that I had come to understand meant serious trouble, yet it was not his jaw I had eyes for.

“I beg your pardon, Master Roake. If you'll inform me of the expression most pleasing to you, I shall use it exclusively.” I made the pert reply whilst my gaze drifted after the fine form of Captain Morrow. He was now ascending towards the ship's wheel, affording me the opportunity of viewing his fine form from an active angle that showed it in very good light.

“Miss Wilde!” Roake snapped. “Your flippancy does not please me. You will now retire directly below decks.”

“As you wish,” I curtsied just as the ship dipped and found myself tumbling forwards. I would have probably done myself an injury if Roake had not smartly caught me under the arms and hauled me up against his body before I was dashed against the deck.

“If you can do so without the acrobatics, I would prefer it,” he added dryly, turning me and sending me off in the right direction. I made my way across the ship with unsteady footing, quite glad to escape Roake's further attentions, though my body did seem to be glowing where it had momentarily been pressed against his hard form. It was strange, I thought as I made my way to my bunk, just how different the male and female forms were, and how much more strength was contained in the male body, for Roake had lifted me as if I weighed nothing at all.

No wonder some men liked to make sport of women. We were as dolls and playthings, easily manipulated, ordered around and thrashed if we were not pleasing. It was not at all fair, but it was the way the good Lord had made us. “Another wise decision, o Almighty,” I whispered under my breath as I slipped onto my bunk and let my weary bones rest.

A month we had been on the ocean. A month and the seas had become odious, lessons dull and prisoners restless. Our vessel was becalmed for a time, the winds not seeing fit to speed us on our way. This was a source of frustration to captain, sailors and officers alike, even some of the prisoners expressed annoyance though many of us were quite content to stay away from the blasted shores we were destined for.

Lessons became the main matter of concern for prisoners, and due to the spirit of restlessness that prowled the ship; they were also the place where disorder attempted to make headway. It was a curious thing, for when we were alone on the prison decks we entertained ourselves well enough telling stories, sewing new garments from old and playing simple games that passed the time. But during lessons, when mind and body were confined by Roake's strict regime, some prisoners became quite unsettled.

Master Roake was more than equal to the task of keeping order. He seemed to anticipate the rising rebellion and held it at bay with displays of disciplinary ardor that cowed those who had been considering misbehavior. The first occasion he had cause to punish a prisoner other than myself was quite an event.

The woman's name was Mary Brawley. She could not read and did not much care to learn. She was not shy in expressing her displeasure at being compelled to recite the alphabet and as I was the one tasked with teaching her the letters, she was my problem. I was quite concerned by her belligerence, for she was a sturdy woman who had been known to live up to her name. Her knuckles bore the marks and scars of many battles fought and won and I was not keen to learn what they might feel like when hurled with the full force of her strong arm. For that reason I did not take her to task when she refused her lessons in favor of inane chatter. She left me alone to teach those who were interested and I left her alone to comment on whatever thoughts might be passing through her mind at a given moment. It was a system agreeable to us – but not to Master Roake.

“Miss Wilde.” Roake interrupted one such lesson and beckoned me from my small group of students with a crooked finger. I went to him immediately, though I was reluctant to do so. He looked displeased and I had no desire to bear the brunt of his displeasure. “Part of your job as my assistant is maintaining order. That woman has not done a lick of work since she set foot in the room.” His gaze, of course, settled on Mary Brawley.

With the utmost respect and caution I communicated to him that it was beyond my ability to maintain order when the source of the disorder had almost two decades and a hundred pound advantage over me. He seemed to understand, for he asked no more of me aside for inquiring after the woman's name, which I gladly gave him.

“Mary Brawley,” he snapped across the room. “You will be silent for the rest of the lesson.”

“I won't you know,” she said, shifting her body on the bench that could barely take her not inconsiderable bulk. Mary was one of the few women who had expressed a complete lack of fear of Roake, Morrow or almost any sailor on the ship. If her stories were to be believed she had knocked down many men in her time and she did not believe that the 'pretty boys' commanding the ship would be a match for her.

“Excuse me?” Roake spoke softly, his demeanor quiet. I fancy it lulled Mary into
thinking that she had the upper hand, for she uttered a foul epithet in his direction and returned to her conversation. We were all in awe of her nerve, she seemed to fancy herself quite beyond Roake's control.

It was an illusion that was soon shattered, for Roake came down the aisle and hauled Mistress Brawley up from her seat with naught but a strong grip on her ear. It took very little effort on his part to ensure her compliance, for the woman was compelled to follow that delicate body part. As her outrage grew she lashed out at him with large fists, but failed to make contact of any kind. She might have been strong, but Roake's reach was greater than hers and she was able to do little more than windmill her stout arms quite frantically until she tired and was released.

“You are near forty years old,” Roake lectured her. “A mature woman and yet you squall like a spoiled brat.”

Her reply to his criticism was profane in the extreme and I thought that she would surely be beaten where she stood, but Roake abstained from striking the woman and instead spun her into a corner and bade her stay there. Only when she refused did he lash the cane across her rear with a stroke so quick and vicious she emitted an
ear-rending screech. I winced and I saw many others do the same. As imposing as Roake could be, he usually kept his punishments and remonstrations private. But Mary Brawley would not allow that. She continued to complain and disobey his orders, up to the point that he caught her by the back of the neck and slapped the cane down with three cracking hard strokes, each one perfectly under the other. We all saw them bite through her thin cotton shift with wicked precision and heard the gasping intake of breath before she collapsed in the corner, entirely undone by the punishment. The cane had slapped through her last defenses and without them she became a wailing heap.

“Up, Mistress Brawley, or I will repeat the treatment.” He stood over her quite imperiously, the cane in his hand ready to meet her flesh again if she did not obey him. I felt a shiver as I beheld his tall frame poised for further punitive action. The expression on his
well-shaped face was emotionless, his dark eyes boring down at the unfortunate woman who was now begging for his forgiveness. Perhaps it was merely the Biblical passage he'd bade me read that morning, but something about his aspect put me in mind of an avenging angel, perfect in appearance but cold of heart.

Gathering herself from the floor, the woman stood, shaking and sobbing until Roake demanded that she stop on the grounds that she was yet again interrupting the lesson. “You may weep, but do so quietly.”

Order was restored and maintained for quite a while after that event, and Mary Brawley never refused to participate in lessons again. She no doubt thought him a monster as I once had, but for all Roake's fearsome threats and, once in a while, actions, he never laid a hand on a prisoner who did not well and truly deserve it. Indeed he was almost lenient with some of the younger members of our number who were terrified of him in the extreme.

At the end of each week, tests were conducted to determine the pace at which prisoners were learning. Those who had demonstrated progress were moved on to new material and those who had languished for too long occasionally came in for censure, usually of the verbal kind.

During one such test Roake commanded Rosaleen Wright, a girl of no more than fourteen, to read from the primer. The poor girl was shortsighted in the extreme, but with no money for spectacles she read with the book two inches from her face, which gave her the sadly amusing appearance of being a talking book with a body. Unfortunately being compelled to stand alone and read to Roake before her peers was all too much for the girl, whose voice rose to no more than a whisper for the duration of the reading no matter how many times she was exhorted to speak up.

I saw Roake's brow twitch and feared that he might be about to unleash his ire upon the waif. Indeed I prepared myself to intervene on her behalf if it should become necessary. But when she laid down the book he praised her quite warmly for the effort and bade her sit. Her smile at having pleased him was very bright and she grew increasingly confident in subsequent readings.

Through such incidents I was forced to privately admit that Master Roake was genuinely interested in the betterment of those in his care; yet I could not forget that he was a paid minion of those who were sending us off to the other side of the world on the flimsiest of pretexts. I did not therefore regard him, nor any of the other men on the ship, as good men. I made certain to remind myself of that fact every time I felt my feelings softening towards Roake.

The master of discipline was not the only source of trouble on the Valiant. As time wore on poor Lizzy's sickness grew worse and though she spent a great deal of time purging her stomach I could not help but notice that she was becoming increasingly rotund. Her waistline in particular was steadily expanding, even to the point that her dress had to be let out. She requested that I do it for
her, as she was all thumbs when it came to sewing.

“I will gladly do it for you,” I said, holding her dress as she stood in her underclothes, “but I must confess I do not understand why you do not ask one of the others. I am passable with a needle but you know Nelly or Susan or even Margaret would be much better.”

“I don't need those gossips in my business,” Lizzy said, scrunching her face up at the idea. I assumed she meant that they might comment on her recent gains in a hurtful fashion.

“We are all putting on a little weight,” I remarked. “The food is much better than gaol fare.”

“You might be able to read, but yer as daft as a door post when it comes to real matters,” Lizzy chastised me, rolling her eyes to the heavens. I did not understand the cause for such censure and said as much. The look she gave me was a cross between pity and disgust as she leaned forward and hissed her secret. “There's a bun in me oven, Jane. The little blighter is going to be born out here on sea as sure as we stand here now.”

“But... what...” I struggled to find the question uppermost in my mind as I digested that piece of information. “Who is responsible?”

“I am,” Lizzy said, a sadness weighing her face. “Ain't nobody but me going to be caring for this babe.”

“We have to tell...”

“No!” She rounded on me with ferocity. “Nobody is to know.”

“But you'll.... they'll notice a babe.”

“Maybe they will,” she said stubbornly. “But that there's a problem for another day. My Morrow won't be well pleased I reckon,” she said, escaping her situation in a flight of fancy as I sat and began to unpick the stitches of her dress.

Lizzy's news weighed heavily on
me; I was greatly concerned for her. The Valiant did not have much in the way of a ship's surgeon. One of the officers had some basic medical training and Roake possessed a few medicinal books, but childbirth was no small matter and the notion of going through such a process on the high seas was a terrifying one. How afraid she must be! Caught in the grip of great sympathy, I placed Lizzy's dress down and drew her into close embrace.

“
‘Ere what are you doing?” She pretended to take affront, but she did not pull away. I felt her sinking into my arms for a brief moment.

“I will help you in any way I can,” I said. “You will not be alone with this baby, I promise that.”

“You're sweet,” Lizzy said as she pulled away. “Now hurry up and do my dress, I need something to wear.”

That was the end of the discussion as far as she was concerned. I let the waistline of her dress out as far as it would go and the matter of the life growing inside her womb was not broached openly for quite some time.

* * * * *

Whilst we were becalmed it emerged that the officers had access to
many forms of entertainment that the prisoners did not. One of these was fencing, a gentleman's sport of ritualized swordplay. Instead of real swords, combatants used foils with blunt buttons affixed to the points so that they would not pierce an opponent's flesh. It happened to be a sport I was very fond of and I often looked on at dueling officers with jealousy.