Wilde, Jennifer (9 page)

I
had just closed the valise when the locksmith came down to put the shackles on
us. The guards shouted commands, and I lined up with the other women to have
the iron bracelets with chain suspended between them put on my wrists. Angie
was the last in line, an aggravated expression on her face as she rubbed her
backside. When my turn came, I patiently submitted to the locksmith. These
shackles weren't nearly so heavy nor so tight as those I had worn in the cell
on Bow Street, and I was relieved to find our ankles weren't to be shackled as
well. All the same, it was humiliating, a pointed reminder that we were criminals,
the lowest scum in the eyes of society.

Properly
shackled, we waited. Two hours passed, three, and we sat in silence in our
bunks, even Angie's ordinarily high spirits dampened. The air was fetid, the
floors covered with filth. It was a wonder any of us had come through it all
alive. Several of the women were deathly ill. All, with the exception of Angie
and me, were pale, drawn, battered, hair hanging over faces in limp locks. Who
would want to buy any of them? Two or three of them would certainly not recover
from their illness, and none of the others looked capable of even the lightest
work—much less Like candidates for a brothel.

I
could tell from the motion of the ship that we were coming into the harbor.
Sounds of great activity could be heard above. Finally there was a loud,
scraping noise of wood against wood. The great ship rocked mightily, seemed to
shudder all over, then grew still. Blackstone had gone up on deck to await
orders, and the other two guards prowled about with menacing expressions, whips
in hand. Two or three women were weeping silently. The others sat on their
bunks sunk in lethargy. A huge brown rat scurried across the floor, but no one
paid any attention to it. We had all grown accustomed to the rodents that
thrived below deck. Angie gave an impatient sigh and reached up to run a hand
through her blond hair. The chain suspended between her wrists clanked loudly.

"You'd
think th' bleedin' sods'd 'urry up an' let us outta this 'ell 'ole! It's 'ot as
blue blazes down 'ere. 'Ey, Barnes," she called, "When're we gettin'
outta 'ere?"

"Pipe
down, slut!" he bellowed.

"That's
gratitude for you," she told me. "For weeks 'e's been stickin' it in
me. Now that we've landed, I guess th' romance is over. Oh, well," she
added, "what can a girl expect?"

It
was almost an hour before Blackstone returned. We were lined up and marched up
the stairs and onto deck. After the dimness below, the sunlight seemed
blinding. Across the railing I could see stacks of boxes and cargo piled up on
the dock and, beyond that, a row of grayish-pink brick buildings with slate
roofs. There was much activity on shore. The whole town, it seemed, had come to
watch the felons disembark. Jack Reed was nowhere in sight. I was glad. We had
said our goodbyes, and I didn't want him to see me shackled like this.

Angie
was in line behind me. "I wonder where we
are,"
she said.

"Jack
said we'd be landing in Carolina," I replied, "but I have no idea
what the town is called."

"Oh
gawd," she whispered. "Look at them poor men—"

I
looked up to see six wagons with wooden cages built over them, the sort of
vehicles used to transport wild animals in traveling circuses. Three of the
wagons were already filled with the male prisoners. Stunned, apathetic, the men
clung to the bars, oblivious to the catcalls from the crowd. A band of rowdy
Little boys poked at the men with sticks and hurled rocks at the cages. The
crowd seemed to find this highly amusing, but the caged men had grown so
accustomed to such abuse that they seemed hardly to notice. The other three
wagons stood empty, waiting for us.

Five
men were standing at the foot of the gangplank. Four of them were husky chaps
in sturdy boots, black breeches, and green and black jerseys, a sullen lot with
stern features and belligerent eyes. Each of the four held a whip coiled in his
hand and looked all too eager to put it to use. They were obviously our new
guards. The fifth man was burly and broad-shouldered, roughly dressed in tan
breeches, coarse white linen shirt, and leather jerkin. His eyes were flat and
cold. Dirty brown hair fell across his tanned brow. His name, I was to learn,
was Bradford Coleman, and he was to be in charge of us.

Coleman
scowled, watching us descend the gangplank.

"Hurry
it up, you lot!" he bellowed. "I ain't got all day. Christ! Look at
'em! It'll take me two weeks to get 'em in shape for the auction. All right,
men, get 'em into the wagons! Any of 'em give you any trouble, you know what to
do!"

I
bad no idea where we were. The settlement, for it couldn't possibly be called a
town, was a full day's journey from the port where we had landed. We had been
kept in a large stockade for two weeks, well fed and tended like cattle. A
doctor had examined us, had prescribed medicine for those women still sickly,
and now that the day of the auction had finally arrived, all of us looked
considerably better than we had upon arrival. Early in the morning we had been
given bars of soap and were led down to the river to bathe, then, back at the
stockade, instructed to don our very best clothes and groom ourselves for the
sale.

A
carnival atmosphere prevailed at the settlement. People had been arriving in
wagons for the past three days, some of them coming hundreds of miles, and
booths and striped tents had been set up. A noisy, festive crowd spilled over
the area. Women in bonnets and calico dresses gossiped and sampled the food
sold at the booths. Children ran wild, darting from booth to booth, shouting,
fighting, unrestrained. Strapping men in rough clothes drank huge mugs of ale,
argued with each other, examined the poultry and livestock, frequently engaged
in rowdy bouts or fisticuffs. Angie was terrified when she saw the Indians
wandering over the grounds, tall, sickly-looking creatures adorned with beads
and feathers, but one of the guards assured her that these were "tame
redskins."

The
men had been auctioned off the day before. We were taken from the stockade and
herded to a small, roped-off area behind the auction block. A number of people
came to peer at us, but they didn't jeer. They examined us with the same
thoughtful, serious expressions they employed when looking over the cattle
penned across the way and the horses that were for sale. Most of the women had
regained their high spirits. Two weeks of hearty food and fresh air had worked
wonders. Our shackles had long since been removed, but two guards with coiled
whips hovered over us, as did Bradford Coleman, the stocky, leathery-faced
former slave-runner who had been in charge of us since our arrival.

Angie
gave me a sharp nudge in the ribs, pointing to a husky lad with tousled brown
hair who stood just beyond the rope. He wore brown boots, black breeches, and a
coarse blue cotton shirt with full-gathered sleeves. With his merry brown eyes,
broad, pleasant features, and wide grin he looked like an amiable young farmer,
surely not more than twenty. I felt certain he smelled of the barnyard.

"Look
at
'im,"
Angie whispered. "Ain't 'e a dandy specimen? I do
declare, I think 'e's givin' me th' eye. 'E
is!
I wouldn't mind bein' bought
by that 'un, I tell ya for sure. 'Ello, darlin'," she called. "I 'ope
you 'ave somethin'
else
in your pocket 'sides that pistol."

The
fanner grinned, delighted with her bawdy comment. Reaching into his pocket, he
pulled out several gold coins, showing them to us.

"Land
sakes, Marietta, 'e's
rich,
too! I 'ope you're in a buyin' mood,
sweet'eart. I'm th' best bargain you're ever gonna find—"

"Shut
up, wench!" one of the guards warned.

"Go
snatch yourself," Angie told him.

The
young farmer bellowed with laughter and sauntered off into the crowd. Angie
looked elated, certain he was going to buy her. A large tent had been pitched
at the end of the enclosure for us to use, and she hurried inside to take out
her mirror and brush to do some last minute primping before the auction began.
Their initial curiosity satisfied, several of the other women wandered inside,
too, wanting to get out of the blazing sun. Only a few of us remained outside,
including young Martha Roberts, a fifteen-year-old girl convicted of thievery.

Pale
and pretty with light-brown hair and haunted blue eyes, Martha had been ill
throughout the sea voyage, a wraithlike creature who rarely spoke. The doctor
who had examined us upon our arrival at the stockade had pronounced her
pregnant, and the girl had dissolved into tears, confessing later on that she
had shared a filthy room back in London with her older brother, that he had
been having his way with her since she was twelve years old. The child would be
his, and she would rather die than bear it. Coleman had had to keep her
confined in a tiny log hut, heavily shackled, to prevent her from taking her
own life.

Unfettered
now, standing in the blazing sunlight in front of the tent, Martha looked
dazed, as though she had no idea where she was. Someone in the crowd fired a
pistol. The girl jumped, terrified, and then she began to scream hysterically.
Coleman and one of the guards rushed over to her and tried to quieten her.
Martha struggled violently, still screaming, and finally Coleman drew back his
fist and slammed it against her jaw. The girl stumbled backwards, almost
falling. Coleman started to hit her again.

"No!"
I cried.

I
rushed
over to her, gathering her into my arms.

Martha
stared up at me dumbly, unable to comprehend what had happened. I knew the poor
child was demented, her mind finally pushed over the edge by all the horror she
had had to endure.

"Get
away from her, Danver!" Coleman roared.

"She—she'll
ill. You had no right to hit her like that—"

"I
said get away from her!"

He
seized my arm, pulling me away from the girl. I glared at him defiantly, my
eyes blazing. Angie rushed over to Martha, took her hand, and led her into the
tent. Coleman stared at me with flat gray eyes, his face a hard, brutal mask.

"You've
been asking for it for a long time, Danver. Seems to me you need to be taught a
lesson."

"Go
to hell!"

Coleman
flushed, unable to believe his ears. He was accustomed to total obedience, a
brutal tyrant who relished his power and the fear he inspired. He slapped me
across the face so hard that I lost my balance and toppled to the ground. When
I looked up, he was uncoiling the whip he wore fastened to the side of his
belt. It was like a long brown snake slithering on the ground beside me. He
cracked it in the air, smiling when I flinched. I saw him draw his arm back and
heard a loud hissing noise. I closed my eyes bracing myself for the slashing
pain.

"I
wouldn't, Coleman." The voice was soft and pleasant.

I
opened my eyes to see a tall blond man in buckskins standing beside Coleman,
holding his arm in a tight restraining grip. Coleman looked startled, then
furious. He tried to pull his arm free. The man in buckskins smiled an amiable
smile and tightened his grip, applying so much pressure that Coleman let out a
curse and dropped the whip.

"That's
mighty wise of you," the stranger said. "I'd've hated to 'av to break
your arm."

"This
is none of your affair, Rawlins!"

"Ain't
it? I'm thinking of bidding for this one, and I wouldn't want to be buying
damaged goods. A whip can do a lot of damage, man. Run on about your business,
now. Leave the wench alone."

"Now,
just a minute, Rawlins! You got no right to—"

"Easy,
fellow," Rawlins said. "I don't like your tone. You do what I say
now—run along. Oh... one other thing. If you so much as lay a finger on the
wench before the auction, I'll kill you. Do you understand? You know I don't
make idle threats."

Coleman
muttered something unintelligible and stalked into the tent. The tall blond
looked down at me and grinned, and then, reaching down for my hand, he pulled
me to my feet.

"Jeff
Rawlins, ma'am," he said. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

His
voice had that soft, slightly slurred accent I was to learn was typical of
people who lived in the southern part of the country. It was a lovely, melodious
sound, extremely pleasing. Jeff Rawlins grinned, as though the two of us had
just shared a delicious joke.

"I
suppose I should thank you," I told him.

"Not
particularly. I'm afraid I acted from purely selfish motives. A bullwhip can
leave pretty bad scars, and like I told Coleman—I wouldn't wanna be buying
damaged goods. I reckon you're gonna cost a pretty penny. A woman like you'll
have every man in sight losin' their senses and biddin' like crazy."

"Indeed?"

"You're
a magnificent wench. Don't know as I've ever seen another one as appetizin' as
you on the block, not in all the years I've been comin' to these here
auctions."

I
stared at him, any gratitude I might have felt quickly destroyed by his casual,
matter-of-fact manner. Jeff Rawlins was superbly built, lean and muscular.
Though not really handsome, he had pleasant features. His dark-brown eyes were
warm and amiable, his wide, full mouth made for merry smiles. His sandy hair
was decidedly unruly, spilling over his brow in a heavy fringe. He was undeniably
virile, yet there was a curious boyish charm that seemed entirely out of
keeping. Coleman had been frightened, and I had the feeling that this tall,
friendly fellow in his fringed buckskins was quite capable of carrying out the
threat he had made so nonchalantly.