CHAPTER ONE
Liverpool, April 1747
The sixteen women, most of them dressed in filthy rags, stood shivering in a little group on the quayside, waiting to board the ship that was going to take them to hell. They were guarded by a troop of armed militia men. Some of the men proudly sported the uniform blue coat, while the rest wore their everyday clothes. Most of them were very young.
Beth Cunningham, standing in the centre of the group, the only woman wearing a decent, although none-too-clean dress, and the only one in irons, surveyed the enemy and reflected that five well-armed Highlanders could lay waste to the lot of them before they even had a chance to unsling their muskets from their shoulders. Unfortunately, the only well-armed Highlanders left, Jacobite ones that was, were the ones defying the government’s disarming act, and they were several hundred miles away with better things to do than attack a group of inexperienced youths.
Beth sighed and stood on tiptoe, trying to see past her taller companions. This was probably the last time she would ever see her native land, but all she could see from where she stood was a jumble of brick-built buildings, which were probably warehouses to store all the provisions that were brought into and carried out of this rapidly expanding town. In the distance, towering above the other buildings was an elegant church spire.
To the other side, in the dock, was a forest of masts. She had never seen so many ships in one place. Maybe it was better to have such an uninspiring view, of a place she didn’t know. She was not sure she could have borne her last sight to be the heather-covered mountains of Scotland. At least she was not alone; all the women here, and a much larger number of men were bound for the same fate, and there was a strange sort of comfort in that.
Recognising that sentimentality would only weaken her, she reassessed the restricted view from a more practical point of view. Although there were enough people on the quayside to enable an escapee to rapidly mingle with the crowd, with her ankles and wrists fettered she had no chance of making a run for it. None of the other women were so encumbered, but they might as well have been; kept in filthy cells on inadequate rations for months, they had neither the strength nor, in most cases, the will to make an attempt at getting away.
Beth was fortunate, she knew that. Having been lodged at Caroline and Edwin’s for months, she had eaten well, and due to her self-imposed exercise regime was still strong and well-muscled. Following her interview with the Duke of Newcastle at which she had denounced her brother as a traitor, she had been returned to the Tower of London where she had been housed in relative comfort for two days, after which she’d been brought a plain woollen dress to put on, had been manacled, then put into a carriage.
At first she’d thought they were taking her back to Newgate Prison, but instead she’d been conveyed to Tilbury Dock, confined with a lot of other women in a tiny airless cabin on a ship and taken by sea to Liverpool, from where, if the other women were correct and if she was to share their fate, she was to be transported to an as yet unknown destination on the other side of the world. For life. The Colonies, probably. America, where her grandmother had been transported so many years before.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden movement. The militia men moved forward, pushing the women down a gangplank which led onto the ship where they were to spend the next few weeks of their lives. Waiting to meet them on board was some of the crew, dressed in breeches and shirts of varying sober colours, most of them stockingless and barefoot. They were headed by a tall, severe-looking man dressed in immaculate dark blue breeches and frock coat, with cream silk stockings and a gold-embroidered cream silk waistcoat. As the women congregated nervously on the scrubbed wooden boards of the deck, he introduced himself as Captain John Ricky.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said. “Welcome aboard the Veteran. This will be your home for the next several weeks until you disembark in Antigua, where you are to serve out your sentences as indentured servants.”
There was a low murmuring from the women. Antigua? Where was that? He raised a hand, and the women fell silent again.
“It is my aim to ensure that all of you survive the voyage. You will be fed half the rations that my men receive, as you will be resting and they will be working. I apologise that there is insufficient room on board for you to have separate quarters from the male prisoners, but I have ensured you have a little privacy for your ablutions. Do not take this as a licence for you to engage in wanton behaviour. I am a God-fearing man and will tolerate neither immorality nor insubordination. Do I make myself clear?”
Silence.
“Do I have to repeat myself?” he asked coldly.
Several of the women were looking at him blankly. Beth started to translate his speech for the benefit of those who spoke only Gaelic, but had uttered no more than a few words before he interrupted her.
“Wait,” he said. “What gibberish is that?”
Beth bristled, but kept her voice calm as she answered him. It would do no good to antagonise the captain of the ship before they had even left port.
“Many of the women do not speak English, Captain,” she said. “I was translating your words into Gaelic for them.”
He looked at her for a moment, then nodded curtly for her to continue. She spoke rapidly, and when she finished, the women nodded.
“They understand,” Beth said.
“You are English, madam,” Captain Ricky observed.
“Yes.”
“How is it then that you speak this…Gaelic?”
“I spent some time in Scotland, and learnt to speak it passably whilst there. I have a facility for languages,” she lied, hoping that would stop him asking for more details.
“Your name?” he asked, looking at a paper in his hand.
“Elizabeth Cunningham.”
He ran his finger quickly down the paper.
“It says here you are a seamstress, from Manchester. Is that right?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Mr Johnson,” he said, gesturing to the only other well-dressed man on deck.
“Yes, sir?” Mr Johnson said.
“Why is this prisoner in irons? None of the other women are. Is she a troublemaker?”
“I have no idea, sir. She was in irons when I took custody of her this morning.”
The captain turned back to Beth.
“Why are you fettered, madam?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Beth replied. Interesting. If he knew nothing of her background, she was not about to enlighten him. “Perhaps it was thought I might try to escape.”
“Do you intend to try to escape?” he asked. She looked around her. The gangplank had already been lifted.
“No, sir. I have no wish to drown,” she said.
He fixed her with a cold grey stare, which she returned with one of cornflower-blue innocence. After a few seconds he seemed satisfied that she had not intended impertinence.
“We have a blacksmith on board, do we not?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Johnson replied. “One of the prisoners, Low, I believe, is a smith.”
“Very well. Once everyone is settled in, you will bring him on deck and allow him to strike her irons. Her wrists are already raw. I would not have her die of infection unnecessarily. Which one of you is Elizabeth Clavering?”
Another woman, slightly taller than Beth, with light brown hair tied back with a cord, stepped forward and waited.
“It says here you are a seamstress as well,” Captain Ricky said.
“Aye, I am,” she replied.
“And a lady, it seems.”
“We are all ladies,” the young woman said coolly. He bestowed the same look on her as he had on Beth moments earlier. Elizabeth returned his look coldly.
“Do not quibble with me, madam,” the captain said. “Or I assure you, you will regret it. I have been told by your husband’s sister that you are to petition the king for mercy.”
“My husband was hanged at York, Captain, and it’s a little late to petition the Elector, even if I wished to do so,” she answered. Beth warmed to her immediately.
“Nevertheless, you will do so. And while on board my ship you will show respect for the king, madam, or I will teach you to.”
“I have always shown the deepest respect for the king, Captain,” she answered. “If you command me to petition for mercy, I will.”
“I do indeed. Conduct Mrs Clavering to my cabin, Mr Johnson, and take her statement. Take the others below,” he ordered.
They were conducted to a hatch in the deck, and had to climb down a wooden ladder into the hold, which was already crowded with the male prisoners who had been loaded on to the ship before the women. A piece of canvas material had been strung across one corner of the space, behind which was a bucket for the women to relieve themselves in and just enough space for the sixteen females to sit down. They would have to sleep in shifts if they wanted to lie flat, Beth thought.
The men had already settled in, if such a word could be applied to these Spartan conditions. The only furniture, as it were, was a number of buckets which would serve for toilet facilities and which had been moved to one corner and secured with a bit of rope to hopefully stop them spilling their contents when the ship set sail. Other than that there was nothing; no mattresses or blankets. The only light came from the hatch through which they’d just entered, and a few small air vents in the side of the ship.
In the grey gloom, Beth could make out a sea of sparsely dressed individuals, some in breeches and tattered shirts, some in the remains of the plaids they’d no doubt fought in, now ragged. All the men sported beards and long hair, having not had the chance to shave for some time. Some of them wore manacles as she did, although most were unencumbered. There was a low murmur of chatter as people introduced themselves to those who would be their companions through what promised to be a hellish voyage, the soft singsong Scottish cadences mingling with the flat northern English tones of those who had served in the Manchester Regiment.
After a short time Elizabeth Clavering clambered down the ladder, and Beth and Alexander Low, the blacksmith, were called up on deck. While he freed her with a hammer and chisel, Beth took the opportunity to try to obtain information from the crewman who stood guard over them, armed with a pistol.
“Have you been to Antigua before?” Beth asked conversationally. “What’s it like?”
“No, miss,” he said. “This is my first time. But Sam there has.”
Sam, hearing his name, wandered over. Soon they would start to move, and then the deck would be a hive of activity, but for now there was little to do, and chatting with a lovely woman was a pleasant way to pass the time.
“Antigua? It’s an island in the West Indies. Near the American Colonies,” he added, seeing her puzzled expression. “It’s beautiful, miss, and a lot warmer than here, that’s for sure! The sea’s blue, really blue, and there’s bananas that you can pick right off the trees! You ever tasted banana?”
“No,” Beth lied, knowing that if she admitted she had Sam would want to know how, and she had no wish to reveal anything at all about her background.
“It’s lovely, sweet, it is. I expect most of you’ll end up on sugar plantations though. They always need people there, being as the work’s so hard.” He eyed her speculatively. “Not you, though. I expect you’ll end up as a house servant, or maybe even mistress to one of them rich owners, eh, if you play your cards well?” He smiled lasciviously, and for the thousandth time Beth regretted her looks.
“How long will it take to get there?” she asked.
“Depends on the winds and the weather,” he said. “Six weeks maybe. Less if we’re really lucky, more if we’re not. Maybe you and I can keep each other company in the meantime.” He smiled again and Beth tensed.
The smith hit one final blow to Beth’s leg irons and they fell apart. He glared up at Sam, and the other sailor raised his pistol.
“If you’ve quite finished chatting,” the voice of Mr Johnson came from behind the group, causing the two crewmen to spring to attention. “Thank you, Mr Low. You can go below, and you two can get to work.”
Beth and Alexander climbed down the ladder, and the hatch was closed, plunging the prisoners into near-darkness. Beth felt her way over to the other women, most of whom she’d become acquainted with on the trip from London to Liverpool.
“Did you dictate your abject plea for mercy then?” she said as she sat down in the space they made for her. She rubbed her wrists gingerly. They were chafed, but not too badly.
Elizabeth Clavering laughed.
“I wrote it myself,” she said. “It’s probably no’ quite what the Elector’s used to seeing, but to hell with him. Even if it wasna too late, I’d sooner die than beg for mercy from that lump o’ shite.”
“Do ye think they’ll make ye write it again?” Effie Cameron asked.
“They can try, but I’ll no’ be doing it. I doubt they’ll bother. It’ll probably be thrown in the sea. Did ye find anything out?” she asked Beth.
“Antigua’s an island in the West Indies, somewhere near America, they grow bananas and sugar, and it’ll take about six weeks to get there. And sailor Sam would like to become acquainted with me, the fool.”
All the women laughed.
“You want to be careful, miss,” came a masculine voice from behind the curtain. “I’ve heard these sailors are none too clean. You might catch lice off him.”
The laughter became general. Everyone had lice; it was an accepted part of life in prison.
“I think lice’ll be the least o’ your worries, lassie,” another man commented.
“Lice’ll be the least of his worries, if he tries,” Beth said grimly.
“Did yer mother never tell ye that eavesdropping on ladies in their boudoir is ungentlemanly?” the fiery-haired Barbara Campbell asked primly.
“Begging your pardon, my lady.”
“What time do you think they’ll serve afternoon tea and cakes?” an English voice enquired.
“Will I ring the bell and ask?”
Beth laughed with the others and settled down to enjoy the banter. If everyone could keep their spirits up, the voyage might just be bearable.
Once the ship set sail, though, it quickly became apparent that darkness and lack of privacy were only a small part of the problems they would face in the weeks to come. Over the last year or so all of them had, to some extent, become accustomed to dirt, vermin, inadequate food and living in cramped conditions with people who they would perhaps not choose to share accommodations with in normal life. They had learned to tolerate the irritating mannerisms and habits of others, to hold their tempers when driven to anger, and to respect others when they withdrew into themselves in an attempt to find some emotional solitude in an environment where physical solitude was not possible.
Many of them had been on a ship before, but there was a huge difference between sailing round the coast of Britain from Scotland or London to Liverpool, and sailing across a storm-tossed open sea. A good quarter of them were seasick to some extent at the start of the voyage, and over half of them whenever the ship hit bad weather. At the beginning, until they found their sea-legs, almost everyone suffered.
When Beth had sailed from England to France with Alex masquerading as Sir Anthony, Angus, acting as Sir Anthony’s manservant had been felled by seasickness before the ship had even got out of sight of the coast. But he had, in the main, voided the contents of his stomach overboard, and had spent most of his time lying in a coil of rope on deck, green-faced and sweating, refusing to take to the cabin he shared with his brother for fear of rendering it uninhabitable.
The prisoners on board the Veteran did not have the luxury of vomiting overboard, with the result that the buckets started to fill, and the stench was making even those who were not afflicted feel queasy. Even though the improvised chamberpots were tethered to the wall of the hold, their contents still overflowed with every lurch of the ship, meaning that the prisoners, none of whom wanted to occupy the space around the buckets, were even more cramped than they’d expected.
It was with huge relief a few hours after setting sail, that they heard the bolts pulled back, and the hatch lifted, allowing light and, more importantly, air to filter down to the hold. Baskets of food, consisting of slices of rough brown bread thinly smeared with butter, and chunks of hard cheese, were lowered, followed by pitchers of beer. Those not prostrate with sickness reached eagerly for the provisions.
“Make the most of the bread,” one of the sailors called down cheerfully. “There’ll be a lot of that at first, because the flour spoils after a while.”
“Can we come up for some air?” asked John Ostler, a Lincolnshire gentleman who, of all those on board, was the only one not listed as possessing a useful trade. “It is growing unbearable down here.”
“I’ve no orders for that. Only to give you rations, once we were at sea.”
“Will ye at least allow us tae empty the buckets, then, man?” asked James MacPherson. “It reeks dreadful down here. There’s a good many bodies sick wi’ the motion.”
There was a brief silence, then the hatch was lowered again.
“They canna leave us like this for six weeks,” Barbara Campbell said. “They wouldna gie us buckets if they didna intend us to empty them.”
Everyone waited. After what seemed like an interminable time, the hatch reopened.
“All the ladies, and only the ladies, may come up to empty the pails,” the captain said. “You will be allowed to do this twice a day, weather permitting. Any misbehaviour and the privilege will be curtailed.”
The women made their way up the ladder, and the pails were handed up to them to empty over the side. It wasn’t the pleasantest job in the world, but at least it would relieve conditions below, and allow them some fresh air. Once the buckets were emptied and passed back down, the women were allowed to stay on deck for a few minutes to stretch their legs, guarded by three sailors armed with swords and pistols. Beth stood by the rail, watching the ship cut through the waves. Above her the sails cracked and billowed in the wind, which also lifted her hair, now almost shoulder length. She inhaled deeply, savouring the fresh ozone scent of the air.
She had been there for no more than a minute before Sam sidled up behind her.
“What do you say then?” he asked.
“What do I say to what?” she replied.
“To us getting better acquainted. Beautiful girl like you doesn’t want to be stuck down there for weeks. We could come to some arrangement, like.”
“No thank you. I’m quite happy as I am,” she replied calmly, still looking out to sea. The boat was racing across the waves. The sooner we get there the better, she thought, then realised that the fate awaiting her at her destination was unlikely to be better than life on board ship, possibly a lot worse.
Sam had not taken the hint.
“Come on. I’m asking nicely. Not all the men would. There’s some who’ll take without asking, if you get my meaning,” he said.
She turned now and looked at him, her eyes cold and hard.
“Are there now?” she said. “Well, you tell them that if they do, they’d better enjoy it, because it’ll be the last time they ever swive a woman. Or a man, come to that.”
He reddened at the implication that sailors went in for buggery, although in fact many of them did, especially when there were no women available. Then he laughed.
“A little thing like you ought to be nice to me. I can protect you from those who’d hurt you,” he said, his hand patting the butt of the pistol thrust through his belt.
She looked away from him, out to sea again, made a decision.
“Do you want to know why I was in irons?” she said conversationally. “I killed a man.”
“You?” he answered disbelievingly. He looked her up and down. “I don’t believe you.”
“That’s up to you, but it’s true. A redcoat sergeant. I put a knife straight through his throat. He choked to death on his own blood,” she said with obvious relish.
“Don’t have no knife now, though, do you?” he said, but there was hesitation in his voice.
“You don’t need a knife to kill someone,” Beth replied, smiling. “There was a man, once, Ewen Cameron, his name was. He was fighting in a battle, I’m not sure which one. Anyway, this redcoat soldier got the better of him, disarmed him, and was on top of him, straddling him so he couldn’t free his arms. You know, like one of those men you’re wanting to protect me from might do?”
She turned to face him again, leaning her back against the rail. Some of the other crewmen were eyeing them; clearly if Sam was successful, the other women would be next to be propositioned. On the other side of the deck near the hatch, which had been closed again, presumably to stop the male prisoners attempting to come on deck, Mr Johnson, who Beth assumed from his dress to be second-in-command, was gazing upward at the rigging, directing the men with a series of hand gestures. Beth took this in at a glance, then focussed on the face of her would-be suitor. He was slightly puzzled, but clearly interested.
“What happened?” he asked when she didn’t speak immediately.
“Ewen leaned up, like this,” she said, bringing her face to within an inch of Sam’s, as though about to kiss him, “and then he tore the soldier’s throat out with his teeth.”
Sam’s eyes widened and instinctively he took a step backwards. Her eyes were pure ice, her mouth hard. He shivered involuntarily. He had no idea if the story was true or not, but her expression left him in no doubt that ravishing her would not be a happy experience.
“You tell that to your friends,” she said. “Tell them Highlanders are good at using whatever comes to hand, if need be.”
She walked round him and rejoined the other women, who were all looking at her curiously.
As soon as they were back in the hold, Barbara asked her what had happened. She told them, and they all laughed.
“Hopefully he’ll think twice before he asks any more of you for favours,” Beth said.
“How did you think up that one?” Elizabeth asked.
“She didna,” Flora, one of the three Cameron women on board, put in before Beth had chance to answer. “It’s true. All the Camerons ken it well. Ewen was Lochiel’s grandfaither. It was at the battle o’ Inverlochy it happened.”
“I couldn’t remember the battle,” Beth said, managing just in time to stop adding that it was the current Lochiel himself who had told her that story over a bottle of claret one night.
“I met Lochiel once,” one of the Manchester men said, “at Carlisle. He was a good-looking man.”
“No’ as good-looking as Prince Charlie, though,” Jane McIntosh said. There was a collective sigh from the women. “He spoke to me once, when we were in Edinburgh. He was awfu’ bonnie.”
Beth listened in silence as they all talked about the prince, wondering what they would say if she were to tell them that Charles, along with Angus had witnessed her wedding to Alex, and that Angus had won twenty scudi off the prince by drinking him under the table afterwards. Alex had looked so magnificent in his borrowed tartan finery.
It had been a wonderful night, one she had resolved she would treasure for the rest of her life. She could not have imagined the pain that memory would bring her now, knowing that she would never see Alex or Angus again.
She took in a deep shuddering breath and wiped away a tear, thankful for the darkness that hid her expression from the others, then concentrated all her mind on listening to the conversation taking place around her, in an attempt to push the memory to the recesses of her mind.
Over the next days, life settled into a routine. They knew when it went dark, because the tiny bit of light from the air vents disappeared. They left the vents open all the time, relishing the small amount of fresh air they admitted. If there was a heavy storm, they’d been told the vents would have to be closed, otherwise they could stay open.
As soon as it was dark, they tried to sleep. As there wasn’t enough room for everyone to lie down at the same time, half of them would sleep lying down one night, whilst the others slept sitting as best they could. The following night they would swap. In the morning the hatch would be lifted and the women would go up to empty the buckets. After that breakfast would be served, which consisted of wooden bowls of thin oatmeal gruel, with maybe a small hard biscuit, edible only if soaked in the watery gruel.
At some point in the late afternoon the women would be allowed up to empty the buckets again, and then the second meal of the day was served; a piece of salt pork or beef and a bowl of pease, with maybe some bread or hard cheese, with beer and water served at each meal.
The rest of the time the prisoners passed in talking; there was nothing else to do.
Beth found out that although all her female companions were Scottish, a good number of the men were from northern England like herself, the majority in the Manchester Regiment, captured at the fall of Carlisle Castle and held in prison ever since.
They told her that all the officers had been executed, and she informed them of the good news that three of the officers had escaped from Newgate Prison and as far as she knew had not been recaptured. That cheered them up. They told her that in spite of the conditions on shipboard, they were the lucky ones because they’d survived this far, and some of them were still hopeful that there was more chance of escaping from Antigua than there was from prison, although the months of incarceration had rendered a lot of them, English and Scots alike, depressed and despairing. Which was hardly surprising, given the conditions they’d endured, and the future that beckoned.
Once it became apparent that the men were either too listless or too honourable to try to take advantage of them, the women abandoned their makeshift room, retiring behind the canvas curtain only to relieve themselves, although they still tended to keep together, especially at night.
Over the next week Beth got to know her female companions well, and grew close to two of them, close enough to tell them that she’d been married to one of the most wanted men in Britain, although she did not divulge any incriminating details. Even though they were hundreds of miles from home now, information could still be sent back, and she would say nothing that might risk any of the MacGregors.
Her first impression of Elizabeth Clavering as a strong independent woman was only reinforced once she got to know her better. She had been taken prisoner after the battle at Clifton Moor, where her husband had been fatally wounded.
“He tellt me to leave him,” she said, “and I should have heeded him, but I couldna bear to run away when he was still living. After he died, I tried to catch up wi’ the others but they’d moved too fast, and the redcoats caught up wi’ me. I broke one of the bastard’s noses before they took me, though,” she added with satisfaction.
She’d been held at York Castle, and because she was a ‘lady’ had received better treatment than the women Beth had been imprisoned with at Newgate.
“That’s where I met Edmund,” she said. “He was on his way south from Carlisle to join the prince, and decided to have a bit of fun, so he and his men broke into Lowther Hall while the viscount was away fighting wi’ Cumberland, I think. Anyway, they made the servants cook them a meal, but they stayed overlong and were captured. I admired his spirit, stupid though it was, and he admired the way I broke the redcoat’s nose. Anyway, we got close. I was still grieving for Dougal, and Edmund was kind. I didna love him though, and when he started talking about marrying, I said no, at first.”
By now she’d attracted a small group of listeners, all sympathetic, which encouraged her to carry on.
“Anyway, we drew lots, and I didna have to go to trial, which is why I’m here enjoying the Elector’s ‘mercy’,” she said sarcastically, “but Edmund knew he was going for trial, and that he’d suffer the traitor’s death. He didna seem to care at first. He provoked the guards every chance he got, even though I tellt him it wouldna do him any good. Then as time went on he got more and more low. He’d have these outbursts o’ temper, then sink into a mood where he wouldna talk to anyone. He said I was the only person who was keeping him from taking his own life. We knew well the trial was a formality – he was for the hangman, so in the end I agreed to marry him. I didna see the harm in it, and if I saved him from suicide and eternal damnation, so much the better. Father John, he was a priest in the prison with us and a Jacobite too, married us. That caused a stramash when the warder found out, I can tell ye, but give him his due, Father John said he’d a clear conscience, because he did it to ‘avoid us falling into sin’. That was the last thing I was thinking on, although Edmund said if he got me wi’ child they might release me.
“I’ve nae idea if they would have, but it didna happen anyway. We married in June, and he was hung in November. But at least I made his last months a wee bit happier, and I’ve nae doubt he’s with Our Lord now. He gave a braw speech at the end, as well,” she said sadly. “He was a good man, if a little touched in the heid.”
The other woman who Beth found an affinity with was about the same age as she was, plain-featured and with wavy black hair, and could not have been more different from the outspoken Elizabeth Clavering. Anne Cameron hardly spoke at all, keeping herself to herself much of the time and not joining in the spirited conversations that the others indulged in to while away the long hours.
It was when they were on deck one day, about ten days after they’d set sail, that she came over to Beth, who was standing at the rail looking out to sea, as was her custom. The sailors, who at first had maintained a close watch over the women, had now relaxed a little once it became apparent that they were neither going to attempt to storm the ship nor leap overboard en masse, and the female prisoners were left to wander about the deck freely, providing they kept clear of the tangles of ropes snaking along the deck, which were used to train and check the sails.
“It’s a fine day,” Anne said by way of introduction. It was. For the last few days the sky had been grey, and the day before they had not been allowed on deck due to the heavy rain which had fallen for most of the day. It was all the more of a relief to be able to breathe fresh air now.
“It is. It’s good to feel the sunshine on your face,” Beth answered.
“I feel bad for the men,” Anne said. “It’s no’ right that they have to stay below all the time.”
Beth didn’t need to answer this. All the women felt the same way. A lot of the men complained of headaches and sore throats, probably because of the foul air which the small air vents did little to allay, but in the last couple of days two of the men had contracted diarrhoea, which did nothing for the quality of the air and was more worrying, especially as they were now complaining of joint pains too.
“Are you feeling alright?” Beth said instead, sensing that Anne wished to talk about something, but didn’t know how to start. “You look sad,” she added, although that was her companion’s normal expression.
“Aye,” she replied. “I heard one of the sailors say that it’s the eighteenth of April. Meg died a year ago today. My daughter,” she explained in response to Beth’s questioning expression. “I was taken at Carlisle, and they let me keep her with me. She was only two months old then. I didna think the castle would fall to Cumberland so quickly. I thought we’d be safe. And then I thought maybe they’d let me go after a wee while, as I hadna done anything wrong except follow my husband. He made me stay at Carlisle, thought we’d be safer there than carrying on in the snow.”
“My husband did the opposite,” Beth said. “We’d had a fight and I was going to stay at Carlisle, but he told me it wasn’t safe, and made me carry on with him.”
“They were both wrong, then,” Anne commented.
Beth was about to add that, no, Alex had been right, because they’d reconciled and at least she’d spent more time with him, but then realised how tactless that would be.
“Do you know if he’s alive?” she asked instead.
Anne shook her head. “You?” she asked.
“No,” Beth replied. “But I’m sure he’s dead. He’d have found a way to let me know, if he was alive.”
They stood in silence for a minute. Above them men swarmed in the rigging, calling to one another, laughing.
“I’m sorry about your daughter,” Beth said finally.
“Aye, well. She didna have a chance, poor wee mite. Maybe it was for the best. I wouldna want her to have to go through this, and then die in Antigua, wherever that is. Or have been taken from me and brought up as someone’s servant, or worse, and never know her family. She’s at peace now, but I miss her every day.” She took in a deep breath, fighting not to cry.
“I found out I was with child, when I was in Newgate,” Beth said on impulse. “I didn’t know until one of the other women told me. I didn’t know the signs.”
“What…?” Anne began.
“I lost it,” Beth said with a tone of finality that stopped Anne asking any more questions. “It was better that way,” she added.
She’d told herself that for months now in an attempt to allay the guilt she’d felt at not telling Newcastle before he’d had her tortured, but standing here now, with the wind blowing her hair all over her face, she was certain that she’d done the right thing. No child of Alex’s belonged in prison or in a foundling hospital, to be branded as a Jacobite bastard if it had lived. At least it had died without suffering. That was the best she could have done for it, the only thing, given the circumstances. She’d always known that, but this was the first time she’d truly believed it.
She felt a great weight lift from her shoulders, and for a moment actually felt happy for the first time since she’d woken up after the miscarriage. She still yearned for death, but if it was not God’s will to take her yet, then she would accept that. There must be a reason why she was still alive, after coming so close to dying, twice.
Feeling full of purpose she left the rail and Anne, and walked over to Captain Ricky, who was standing by the larger of the ship’s two masts, talking to Mr Johnson.
“Captain,” she said. “Could I have a moment of your time, please?”
He broke off his conversation and looked at her.
“Is it important, madam? I am very busy,” he asked brusquely.
“It is, I think,” she said. He nodded for her to continue. “Are you intending to allow the men to come up on deck at any point?” she asked. “The conditions below are worsening. Many of the men are feeling very unwell, and it would make such a difference to them to have access to a little air and exercise.”
“That was not my intention, no,” he said. “I will not risk my ship or the safety of my men in order to allow a rabble of traitors to take the air. They should have thought of the consequences of their actions before they followed the Pretender’s Son.”
His tone indicated that she, being a woman, did not have the intelligence to think for herself. Clearly he did not consider women a threat. She’d hoped he had allowed the women on deck due to compassion, but saw now that she was wrong. She changed tack.
“Two of the men have diarrhoea, and are complaining of backache and joint pains,” she said.
“As I have already said—”
“When I was in Newgate,” Beth continued conversationally, “there was an outbreak of gaol fever, and a great number of prisoners died. The first symptoms were diarrhoea, then backache and joint pains. Only one woman in my cell died though, and I think that was because I had a little money at the time and used it to buy vinegar to clean the cell and lavender oil to sweeten the air. As I’m sure you know, gaol fever is caused by noxious air, and the air below deck is very noxious at the moment.”
Captain Ricky looked at her incredulously.
“As you can see, madam,” he said, indicating the ship with a gesture of his arm, “our access to a field of lavender is a little restricted at the moment. Now, if you will excuse me.”
“Of course,” Beth said. “My apologies. I just thought it would be such a shame if you were to lose most of your prisoners before you reach Antigua. But I suppose it will make no difference to you, as the government will no doubt pay you for us anyway, will they not? I am grateful that you allow the ladies at least to take the air. Thank you, Captain. I am sorry to have disturbed you.”
She knew from listening to Alex when talking about his smuggling escapades, that ship owners were only paid for their cargoes when they reached their destination safely. She hoped that also applied to human cargoes.
It seemed she was right. The next day the two sick men were taken on deck and examined by the ship’s doctor, who confirmed that the men were merely suffering from dysentery and that their muscle pains were due to the cramped conditions they were living in, especially as they were unable to stand upright, the ceiling of their accommodations being only five feet high.
The day after that the men were taken on deck in small groups and allowed fifteen minutes to stretch their limbs, closely guarded by a number of the crew. This, the captain informed them, would be a daily occurrence unless they offered any violence whatsoever to the crew, in which case they could rot and die as far as he was concerned.
The men made no attempt to storm the ship, aware that in their weakened state and without any weapons they had virtually no chance of success, and that if they did make any such attempt, they would not breathe fresh air until they arrived on land. None of them had any idea how to sail a ship anyway; but they all knew how to fight on land.
Better to submit for now, so that they would arrive in Antigua as healthy as possible. While the men were on deck in groups of twenty, the women were given buckets of sea water and brushes, which they used to wash down the floor of the hold while the remaining men moved around the space as they scrubbed, sometimes taking a turn themselves. The air was still foul, and the food monotonous and inadequate, but it was much better than before and the spirits of the prisoners were raised considerably.
No one knew why the captain had suddenly had a change of heart, and Beth did not tell her companions of her conversation with him; she was just glad that he had taken her veiled warning on board.
In spite of the improvement in conditions some of the prisoners did not survive to reach the West Indies; five of the men and two women died during the voyage, two from infected wounds, one from being thrown against the wall of the hold during a storm, and the remaining three from unknown wasting diseases that they had probably already been suffering from before coming on board. Their bodies were taken out of the hold, and after a few words from the ship’s chaplain were thrown overboard.
The remaining passengers were still infested with lice, and had no way of keeping themselves clean and no change of clothing. Bites became infected, and were cleaned with seawater in an attempt to stop them ulcerating, with limited success. But there was no outbreak of typhus or any other contagion, and that was something to be thankful for.
As the weeks passed, the prisoners formed friendship groups based loosely on nationality, clan, or age. By common consent they had agreed not to speak of clan feuds, recognising that this was not the time or place to settle old grievances. Instead of their differences they tried to focus on what they had in common; they all supported the Stuarts, and they were all heading for an unknown life in an alien land.
Nevertheless the strain was starting to tell on them, even though they told themselves that at least they now knew there was an end in sight to their current condition, and that it was getting closer with every day that passed. As they got nearer to their destination the weather, which had been cool and breezy, and often very cold at night, slowly became warmer, and after four weeks at sea the temperature on deck by day was that of a very hot day in high summer in Britain, and even at night it stayed hot and humid, making sleeping in the stuffy hold virtually impossible.
They all dreaded the life they were heading for, indentured servitude just being a synonym for slavery, but told themselves that slaves escaped sometimes, and were set free sometimes too. Anyone who voiced pessimistic views was silenced abruptly; what was the point in becoming miserable about something you couldn’t change? They had all made the best of their long imprisonment – that, along with luck in avoiding a fatal illness, was why they were here. They would make the best of what was to come too.
“My grandmother was transported when she was a young woman,” Beth told her companions one particularly hot evening as they all sat or lay in the darkness. In Scotland now, and even in northern England, the days would be long, the sun not setting until nine o’clock at the earliest, and rising again around four in the morning. One of the men had commented to a sailor that the nights seemed to be getting longer rather than shorter, and had been told that it was because they were near the equator; that day and night were more or less of equal length all year round. They had all marvelled at this, and had adapted, talking for a short while after dark rather than attempting to sleep for twelve hours, which was difficult in any case, but in this heat impossible.
“Was that after the ’15?” one of the men asked.
“No, it was earlier than that, after Killiecrankie.” This was a lie, but only a partial one; the massacre of Glencoe had taken place after the Battle of Killiecrankie. But Beth had no wish to reveal her MacDonald ancestry to the others; nor did she wish to raise clan matters. Several of her fellow prisoners were Campbells after all, who had fought with the prince rather than against him as the bulk of their clan had. “She was transported to America, and she had a very bad time at first. But she told me that it was partly her own fault, because she couldn’t accept the life that God had planned for her, so she fought it all the way. She tried to kill the first man who bought her. She said that she should have learnt when to compromise, because if she had, her life in the Colonies would have been much easier.”
“How do ye ken this?” Effie Cameron asked. “Who tellt ye?”
“She did,” Beth answered. “The last people who bought her indenture looked after her, even though she insulted them and rebelled. And then they gave her her freedom, and set her up in a little place of her own. She saved for years, and then when she got old, decided she wanted to die at home. So she came back.”
There was a short silence while they all absorbed the fact that it was possible to be freed and to go back home. They had heard stories of people returning to Scotland from France, or Italy maybe, but from the other side of the world… no.
“Did she die at home wi’ her family, then?” someone asked in the darkness.
“I don’t know. The last time I saw her she was still alive and fit and well too. But yes, she was with her family. Everyone thinks she’ll live forever, but when she does die she’ll be at home, as she wanted. She told me that she nearly died in America, but only because she couldn’t accept when she was beaten. I’ve been thinking about that a lot over the last few days.”
By the silence that followed, she realised she was no longer alone in thinking about that.
The following day Captain Ricky informed them that they should, wind permitting, reach Antigua in no more than three days. The general mood on hearing this was one of relief. However bad their new lives might be, it was unlikely that they’d be confined in a hot and humid oversized coffin for weeks on end. And there was always the possibility that they might one day be able to return home. If one elderly woman had done it, why shouldn’t they?
Better to think on that, than on the more likely outcome; that they would die as slaves in an alien, hostile land.