Page 5 of Transporting a Ruthless Highlander
Callum nodded in agreement, and they went to inspect the long rows of cells that lined the top deck. Each one was tiny and cramped, but theWeeping Willowwas a better ship than many of her ilk. The quarters were small, but at least each convict had his or her own space, unlike others where they were simply herded in like cattle and treated the same way. Gavina and her first mate made a point of checking the prisoners once a day to make sure that their health was good, however, since she received a fee for every one of them she delivered.
“This lot seems tae be in good shape,” she remarked as they walked slowly down the line of cells. “I have had trips where we have had tae bury more than a few o’ them.” She shuddered. Although burials at sea were far less troublesome than burials on land, she always dreaded them.
They had a healer and a chaplain on board, so in a practical sense she had no need to be at the funerals, but she always felt that she should attend them because she was the captain and it was the right thing to do. Many skippers on the penal transport ships condemned her for being too soft and thought that it must be because she was a woman. All ships suffered losses, after all. However, since her ship landed more able-bodied convicts on American soil than almost anyone else’s, Gavina had the last laugh since she made much more money than they did.
She and Callum were walking slowly along the rows of men and women, carefully observing each one and noting any that showed symptoms of illness or infection. Some of the female convicts were with child, and over the years dozens of babies had been born on board theWeeping Willow,but there had been many stillbirths, and it broke Gavina’s heart to see the little shrouded shapes being cast into the sea. As well as that, many women died giving birth, and because of that Gavina had made up her mind that she was never going to be a mother.
“Nothin’ much happenin’ taeday, Callum,” she observed. They had come to the last few prisoners on the top deck, and Gavina was ravenous. The crew’s fare was only a little better than the prisoners’, but at least it was edible, and there was plenty of it.
She sent Callum ahead to order their food then continued on her own but had only gone a few steps when she jumped back, startled by a sudden crash and the enraged roar of a man’s voice. She turned to meet the dark eyes of the biggest and angriest man she had ever seen.
Struan heard footsteps coming toward him and the sound of a man and a woman talking and laughing companionably. Presently, a short middle-aged man ran past the cell, but he had disappeared before Struan could call to him. However, he could still hear the woman’s footfalls and the sound of her voice as she hummed a tuneful melody. She sounded as though she did not have a care in the world, and suddenly he was furious. Here he was, an innocent man trapped in a cell barely bigger than his bed at home, while some wench was strolling around outside singing! It was just not fair.
He threw himself against the iron bars of his cage and let out a bloodcurdling yell.
The woman jumped back, her bright green eyes wide with fright, and stared at the man for a moment, thanking God that there were thick metal rods between them. The prisoner was a huge man in every way—tall, muscular, and with a voice like a foghorn.
“I am not guilty!” he roared. “I am innocent! Let me out of here!” He stood clutching the bars of the cell and rattling them so hard that Gavina thought he might shake them loose and break out.
Then she saw the raw flesh on his wrists and the blood dripping from them. No wonder he was so enraged. He was reacting as any wounded animal in a trap would, striking out in self-defense. She almost pitied him, but not quite enough; she had seen the same thing many times before.
She called out to a passing crew member, “Gregor, can ye find the healer an’ bring her here?” she asked. “An’ a couple o’ stout lads tae keep this one pinned doon.” She gave Struan a venomous look.
The man left, and Gavina turned to look at the prisoner. He would certainly have been a fine-looking man if it were not for the vicious light in his eyes. His short hair was only a shade lighter than hers, a color that was not quite red and not quite blond, but his brown eyes were now black with rage.
She was not moved by his words; if she had believed everyone who claimed to be innocent, the ship would be empty. She had known from her earliest days that no man alive could be trusted, and as she grew older, her cynicism grew too. None of them was guilty in their own mind. She turned her back on the prisoner, then went to fetch some ale while she waited for the healer to arrive.
Struan was seething. It did not even occur to him to wonder why there was a woman in breeches standing in front of him. “Do you not care what happens to the people who are being treated in this way?” he demanded. “People are suffering in this hellhole!”
Gavina ignored him and sighed. His shouting was beginning to give her a headache, and she was relieved when she saw the healer, Margaret Morrison, and two sturdy sailors. Margaret herself could likely have replaced one of the sailors since she was tall, robust, and strong as an ox.
“What have we here?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as she studied Struan’s wounds. She frowned and tut-tutted as she cut the rope from his hands. “These are goin’ tae become infected. Open the gate, boys.”
As soon as the cell door was open, Struan leaped at them but was immediately grabbed by two pairs of mighty arms and forced back onto the floor.
“I am innocent!” he roared. “There has been a mistake! I did not kill anyone!”
Gavina stared down at him. “Forgive me if I dinnae believe ye, lad,” she said dryly. “I have heard that same story a thousand times before.” She gave him a scathing glance, then turned and walked away.
3
Margaret immediately unbound Struan’s wrists, then turned them over to see the damage that had been wrought on them by the coarse rope. Her glance flicked to his face from time to time to ensure that he was not about to pass out from the pain of her treatment, but he remained strong enough to struggle against the two burly men who were restraining him.
Eventually, realizing that wrestling with the two big men was getting him nowhere, Struan lay back on his straw pallet and allowed the healer to bathe his raw flesh in wine then apply some poppy salve to it. After this, she bandaged his wrists and looked at his ankles, which had also been bound for a while, and gave them the same treatment.
Once Struan had relaxed, the two sailors, confident that he was not going to escape, finally loosened their grip on him but stood by the cell gate, watching him closely.
“What kind of ship is this?” Struan asked the healer. He needed to gain more knowledge of his surroundings so that he could make an escape.
She shrugged. “It is a boat that carries prisoners, an’ that is a’ I know.” Her voice was indifferent.
“Do you know how many prisoners there are on board?” he asked casually, as if he was merely trying to make conversation.
The healer looked at him suspiciously. “Why dae ye want tae know?” she asked, her brows lowered in a fierce frown. “Hundreds. Now shut up. I have work tae dae.”
He ignored her. “Do we ever get out to exercise?” he persisted. If even a few dozen convicts were on deck at one time, then perhaps they could overpower the crew and take over the ship. He had no doubt the crew were well-armed, though, and he was doubtful if any of the prisoners had the ability to sail a ship, especially one as big as this.
The healer’s eyes narrowed as she looked at him, and she pointedly ignored his question. In fact, during the rest of the time that she took to finish off her task, she said nothing more to him, even though he bombarded her with questions.
