The Pirate Lord (2 page)

A
week after Sara’s discussion with her stepbrother, she stood on the decks of the
Chastity
. It was early morning, when the ocean looked like a fluid carpet. It was such a marvel. She’d never even glimpsed it until two days ago when they’d passed out of the Thames into open water, but already she loved its changeable nature.

The first day it had been like a spirited dragon carrying ships on its sharply undulating back. Its breath had sprayed mist over the rails into their faces, and its watery claws had slapped furiously against the hull, forcing the three-masted frigate to roll and pitch on each fresh swell.

Today, however, it was gentler, more like a rocking horse thumping the ship along in a pleasing motion. She breathed in the salt-drenched air, so different from the cloying stench in London. Thank goodness she’d es
caped the seasickness that plagued some of the convicts. It was as if she’d been meant to sail.

“’Tis a lovely day, ain’t it, miss?” said a voice at her side.

She whirled to find one of the sailors standing beside her at the rail. She’d noticed him before, looking at her as if trying to make her out. Something about him struck her as familiar, but she couldn’t figure out why. He looked like nobody she knew. A wiry man of about thirty years, with big ears and skinny limbs, the only thing he resembled was an organ grinder’s monkey. Though he seemed harmless enough, the intensity of his interest disturbed her.

And he was standing far too close. “Yes,” she murmured, edging away from him along the rail. “It is indeed a lovely day.” Turning her face back toward the ocean, she pointedly ignored him, hoping that would make him leave her alone.

But he only moved closer. “You’re the one what’s teaching the convicts, ain’t you? Your name’s Miss Willis?”

“Yes, we begin our classes this morning.”

When he leaned toward her, her heart began to pound, and she scanned the ship for some sign of rescue. But despite the sailors scrambling about the spider’s web of rigging above her, no one was within hailing distance. Not that she would hail any of the twenty-two crewmen. She didn’t trust them one jot. Already she’d had to chastise a sailor she’d found sneaking into the ship’s prison quarters late at night when she’d left her tiny cabin, unable to sleep.

But where were the captain and the ship’s officers this morning? Or the surgeon and his wife?

“I been wanting to speak to you—” the man began, and she braced herself to give him a sharp set-down. Then the ship’s bell rang, signaling the beginning of the next watch.

As the men scurried down from the rigging and oth
ers came on deck, she used the ensuing bustle to escape the strange sailor. But her blood thundered in her ears as she hurried to the saloon where she and the ship’s officers breakfasted. Perhaps Jordan’s concern for her had been warranted, after all.

Don’t be silly
, she told herself as she entered the familiar saloon.
There are plenty of people around. Just don’t stroll about the deck alone anymore
.

But that wasn’t easy to do. She couldn’t bear to stay in her cabin or below decks all the time, and there was no one to stroll with her on deck. She watched glumly as Captain Rogers entered and took his seat at the opposite end of the breakfast table. The good captain would never escort her. A blustering, gruff man in his fifties, he was more interested in sailing his ship than in talking to the troublesome woman the Ladies’ Committee had sent aboard.

She glanced around the table at her other companions. The officers were all too busy to walk with her. And although the surgeon and his wife would probably accompany her, she’d prefer complete solitude to any conversation with them. She’d never seen such a somber pair, full of dire predictions about storms and shipwrecks. Why, the surgeon had already terrified one of the convict women’s girls by claiming that her protruding forehead proved she would lead a life of crime, like her mother. The girl had calmed down only after Sara had pointed out that the surgeon’s wife had a similar forehead, though it was hidden by corkscrew curls.

The ship’s cook thrust a bowl of oatmeal in front of Sara, and she grabbed the edge to keep it from skittering along the table with the movement of the ship. No, finding a companion was not the answer. She would simply have to content herself with her work. Thankfully, there was plenty to keep her busy, what with the eight children of school age aboard the
Chastity
, in addition to the fifty-one convict women and the thirteen younger children. She suspected that everyone—except the two
babies, of course—would need some sort of schooling.

Thus, an hour later when she went below to the prison cells on the orlop deck, she found herself eager to begin. Oddly enough, she felt safer with the convict women than she did with the sailors.

With the cell doors open and the women milling around preparing for the day, she could almost forget they were criminals. They were divided loosely into eight messes. At night, two messes of women and their children were locked in each of the four nine-by-twelve-foot cells, but during the day, they had more freedom. As they moved in and out, stowing their belongings on one of the three levels of berths and washing up at a barrel of sea water, they looked remarkably like any other traveling women.

Well, except for the tattoos, of course, that peeked out from beneath some of the women’s coarse cuffs. What possessed a woman to adorn her body so permanently? Probably the same thing that drove civilized women in past decades to wear powdered wigs and hoop skirts. Convict fashions were probably no more bizarre than any fashion.

In truth, only the most hardened criminals wore tattoos, the women who’d been in gangs of burglars or who’d mixed prostitution with thievery. The dairy maids and shopgirls who’d been sentenced to exile for stealing pies and used clothing would never dream of defacing their bodies.

Grabbing onto a post when the ship dipped, Sara surveyed the lot of them with a critical eye. Their clothing was pitiful. As usual, the Navy Board’s regulations were idiotic. Some fool had dictated that wool and flannel carried disease and thus were unacceptable materials for convict uniforms. As a result, the sad wretches wore cotton gowns that proved no protection at all against the wintry air of the North Atlantic. Even the children were allowed only cotton garments.

Something must be done about that at once. In addi
tion to the summery muslins she’d packed in anticipation of warmer climes, she’d also packed five inexpensive wool gowns. But she didn’t need all of them. Two would suffice, though it meant washing every day. The others could be made into warmer clothing for the little ones. As for the women, perhaps she could prevail upon the captain to allow a stove to be placed in the hold, at least until they neared the tropics.

But that could be dealt with later. Now it was time to set her little school in motion. Releasing the post and spreading her feet wider to allow her a better balance on the rolling bottom of the ship, she clapped her hands to gain the women’s attention.

As soon as they settled down and faced her, she ventured a smile. “Good morning. I trust you slept well.” When they murmured responses, she went on. “Many of you already know me as one of Mrs. Fry’s ladies who visited at Newgate. But for those of you who don’t, I’m Miss Sara Willis. I’m your teacher.”

The women began muttering. They’d been told they’d receive instruction, but the idea clearly didn’t appeal to some of them. After much prodding and whispering, one of the women stepped forward from among the others.

The poor dear’s face and gloveless fingers were chapped and reddened from the cold. Nonetheless, she wore a haughty air quite at odds with her situation. “Some of us know our letters and sums already, miss. We won’t need instruction.”

Sara didn’t take offense at the woman’s insolent tone. The convicts had gone through many disturbing changes recently and were bound to be suspicious of her. She’d just have to allay their suspicions as much as possible.

She smiled at the woman. “Very well. Those who already have an education can help me with the ones who don’t. I’ll be pleased to have your help, Miss—” She broke off. “What is your name?”

Her amiability seemed to take the woman aback. “Louisa Yarrow,” she blurted out, then scowled as if she’d been tricked. She tossed her head, making her cropped-short blond hair bounce. “I don’t know if I want to help you.”

“That’s purely your decision, Miss Yarrow. Of course, it’d be a shame if the children went the entire voyage without any instruction. I was so hoping someone could deal with them while I tend to the women who
are
interested in furthering their education.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “But if no one wants to help—”

“I’ll help, miss!” called a voice from the back of one of the compartments.

Sara looked toward the timid young voice, but when the black-haired girl stood, clutching at the iron bars of a cell to steady her balance, Sara realized she wasn’t a girl at all, but a doll-like creature of womanly proportions.

Sara cast her a reassuring smile. “And your name is—”

“Ann Morris. From Wales.” The woman’s heavy Welsh accent made that quite clear. “I don’t know my English letters so good, but I know the Welsh ones.”

“What the bloody hell good will that do where we’re goin’?” a harsh voice cried from one of the berths. “Just because it’s called New South Wales don’t mean it’s got Welshmen!”

Everyone laughed uproariously at that sally. Little Ann Morris looked stricken, which made some in the crowd only laugh harder.

With a frown of disapproval, Sara clapped her hands until she got silence again. “You can help me anyway, Ann.” She ignored the snorts of the others. “You don’t need to know your English letters to be able to help the children while I teach the women. You and the children can learn together.”

Another woman might have been insulted to be lumped in with the children, but Ann Morris flashed
Sara a grateful smile before she sat down again. Clearly she liked children, and Sara intended to take advantage of that to help the girl learn.

When Sara returned her attention to the others, she was surprised to find that some of their hostility had abated. “Now, then, the Ladies’ Committee has provided us with a hundred pounds of cloth scraps and sewing materials for making patchwork quilts. Each of you will receive a packet of materials and two pounds of cloth. You may sell whatever quilts you complete and keep the proceeds for yourself.”

That proposal met with more approval from the women. Though the money the quilts brought in might not be much, Sara knew it would be welcome in a strange land. This was the first time providing materials had been tried. On previous journeys, ship’s crews had complained that the restless convict women caused trouble. Of course, anyone with an ounce of common sense could have seen that the women needed something to do, but common sense had been scoured out of the Navy Board members at an early age, so it had taken Mrs. Fry to point out the obvious. Once she’d gained the Navy Board’s approval, the Ladies’ Committee had convinced several textile factories to donate cloth scraps. The ladies had bought the thread, needles, and other tools on their own.

“I’ll distribute the packets in a moment,” Sara informed the women, “but first, I want to determine what sort of education all of you have. Those who already know their letters, please raise your hands.” An uncomfortable silence ensued, full of wary glances and shifting feet. When nothing happened, Sara added, “I assure you, ladies, I simply want information. I promise not to hold your ability to read or your lack thereof against you.”

That seemed to reassure them. About half of the women lifted their hands, including Louisa Yarrow. When they started to put their hands down, she said,
“Wait. Those of you who know your letters well enough to read a page of type, keep your hands up. The rest may put theirs down.”

Half of those with their hands up lowered their hands. Sara estimated there were about thirteen women who professed to be able to read. She did a similar division for those who could write and ended up with seven women who could both read and write. After some discussion, she succeeded in assigning two of the women to help Ann with teaching the children and the other five to teach small groups of women, divided according to their level of skill.

One of the women who claimed to both read and write, a saucy tart by the name of Queenie, refused to do any teaching, stating that she’d rather spend her time in “other” pursuits. When she lifted her skirts and swished them about her calves, several women laughed and Sara knew at once what Queenie meant.

Mrs. Fry had warned Sara that the problem of the sailors consorting with the women wasn’t always the men’s fault. Some of the “soiled doves” among the convict women were more than happy to continue their profession on the voyage.

Sara refused to tolerate such behavior. It took only one woman engaging in such illicit acts to provoke the men into forcing the others to do so, too. She’d seen it happen in Newgate, and it would surely happen here. Besides, she wanted these women to see their own value—and they wouldn’t do that by selling themselves.

But she couldn’t very well say that to Queenie, could she? Instead, she took a different approach. “That’s fine, Queenie. If you’re incapable of teaching, then by all means, do something else. I want only those with true ability. If you’re inadequate for the position, I certainly wouldn’t want you ruining the other women’s chances to better themselves.”

At the titters of those around her, Queenie lost her
smirk. “See here, I wasn’t saying I couldn’t do it, just that—”

“I’ll be perfectly happy to take Queenie’s pupils,” Miss Yarrow cut in, much to Sara’s surprise. When Sara shot her a questioning glance, the well-spoken young woman stuck out her chin and added, “
I
don’t have any other pursuits, not of Queenie’s kind, at any rate. I’m not letting any filthy man put his paws on
me
.”

Her words were spoken with such vehemence that Sara couldn’t help wondering about it. She stared at Louisa Yarrow, straining to remember what she’d read about her in the list of convicts and their crimes. Ah, yes, Louisa was the one who’d been a governess to the Duke of Dorchester’s daughters until the night she’d stabbed the duke’s eldest son and nearly killed him. Now the gently bred woman was serving a sentence of fourteen years’ transportation.