to be had,
making a big pretense out of studying his watch. His features were rigid, his
eyes shuttered.
"Seen
enough?" he asked sharply, looking up.
She could only
stand there, crouched beneath the low overhead deck as she stared about her,
too shocked to answer, even to record in her notebook what her nightmares could
not have begun to imagine.
Men, some half
naked, some wearing nothing more than the grime that covered them, reposed on
benches or stood idly about, caught in the act of playing dice, conversing,
making ship's models out of bits of wood. They stared at her. Lice crawled in
their hair. Flies drank from the sweat trails that cut rivers down their
filthy faces. Scabs dotted their skeletal legs, their bony arms, the patches
of skin that showed through the remnants of their clothing. Some of them had
hard, feral eyes and starved smiles; others looked at her with sad gazes devoid
of hope. Still others just stared, corpse-like, right through her, their minds
already dead and waiting for their bodies to follow. Hammocks — some stowed,
some hung, some lying in the damp filth of the deck — were everywhere, and the
deck overhead was, at five feet, so low that nobody could stand up, the result
being that those prisoners who were on their feet were round-backed and
hulking, adding to their frightening, monstrous effect all the more.
And then the
noise started.
"Aaah, look
at the fancy Englishwoman! Come to stare at us like animals in the zoo, come
to gawk! Bah, you go, leave us! Go now, no humiliate!"
Movement,
violent shoving. "No, let her stay! We never get to see pretty ladies.
Let her stay!"
"Hey Capitaine ,
you got yourself une belle femme ? You share her with hungry Frenchmen,
no?"
"Come here
to my hammock, ma coeur ! Let me show how a real man can pleasure
you!"
The insults and
abuse grew deafening, fists flew, and a wave of threat and hostility began to
push the crowd forward. Gwyneth looked nervously at Lord Morninghall. He
shoved his watch into his pocket, his eyes blazing, and turned to one of the marines
who stood on the ladder just behind them. "Shut these wretches up!"
he snapped, seizing Gwyneth's arm and hauling her quickly toward the next
hatch.
But not fast enough.
She saw two men eating a dead rat, another grinning madly as he exposed himself
to her, another urinating against the hull and watching, fascinated, as the
urine streamed down the blackened wood. Filthy hands reached for her, and she
gasped when someone snatched the hat from her head with a shout of triumph,
pulling her hair, pulling tears of pain to her eyes, flinging the hat out into
the masses like a trophy. She pressed close to Morninghall, suddenly terrified
of becoming separated from him.
"English
pig! How dare you bring your woman aboard to flaunt her in our faces!" An
American voice, that one.
And more French:
"You wait, ze Black Wolf will rescue us! Ze Black Wolf will make you a laughingstock, aristo !"
The clamor grew
louder, and behind her she could hear the marines yelling angrily for order.
Morninghall had released her arm and was just going down the ladder now, his
shoulders set and rigid, his hair gleaming in the dim lantern light.
"Why aren't
these men better dressed than they are?" Gwyneth asked, yelling down to
him over the din. She grasped the coaming and yanked her hand away in disgust
at the grime that soiled her glove. "I thought you said the Transport
Office issues them clothing —"
"They do.
These men, madam , are the very lowest of the low, the Raffalés ,"
he responded, without bothering to turn around. "You will find the
officers, the gentlemen, and the Americans in a more acceptable state of
clothing, breeding and manner."
"Surely,
being of a low social class should not mean they have to go about freezing and
half-naked!" she cried, over the noise.
He looked up at
her over his shoulder. "If they are freezing and half-naked, it's
making a big pretense out of studying his watch. His features were rigid, his
eyes shuttered.
"Seen
enough?" he asked sharply, looking up.
She could only
stand there, crouched beneath the low overhead deck as she stared about her,
too shocked to answer, even to record in her notebook what her nightmares could
not have begun to imagine.
Men, some half
naked, some wearing nothing more than the grime that covered them, reposed on
benches or stood idly about, caught in the act of playing dice, conversing,
making ship's models out of bits of wood. They stared at her. Lice crawled in
their hair. Flies drank from the sweat trails that cut rivers down their
filthy faces. Scabs dotted their skeletal legs, their bony arms, the patches
of skin that showed through the remnants of their clothing. Some of them had
hard, feral eyes and starved smiles; others looked at her with sad gazes devoid
of hope. Still others just stared, corpse-like, right through her, their minds
already dead and waiting for their bodies to follow. Hammocks — some stowed,
some hung, some lying in the damp filth of the deck — were everywhere, and the
deck overhead was, at five feet, so low that nobody could stand up, the result
being that those prisoners who were on their feet were round-backed and
hulking, adding to their frightening, monstrous effect all the more.
And then the
noise started.
"Aaah, look
at the fancy Englishwoman! Come to stare at us like animals in the zoo, come
to gawk! Bah, you go, leave us! Go now, no humiliate!"
Movement,
violent shoving. "No, let her stay! We never get to see pretty ladies.
Let her stay!"
"Hey Capitaine ,
you got yourself une belle femme ? You share her with hungry Frenchmen,
no?"
"Come here
to my hammock, ma coeur ! Let me show how a real man can pleasure
you!"
The insults and
abuse grew deafening, fists flew, and a wave of threat and hostility began to
push the crowd forward. Gwyneth looked nervously at Lord Morninghall. He
shoved his watch into his pocket, his eyes blazing, and turned to one of the marines
who stood on the ladder just behind them. "Shut these wretches up!"
he snapped, seizing Gwyneth's arm and hauling her quickly toward the next
hatch.
But not fast enough.
She saw two men eating a dead rat, another grinning madly as he exposed himself
to her, another urinating against the hull and watching, fascinated, as the
urine streamed down the blackened wood. Filthy hands reached for her, and she
gasped when someone snatched the hat from her head with a shout of triumph,
pulling her hair, pulling tears of pain to her eyes, flinging the hat out into
the masses like a trophy. She pressed close to Morninghall, suddenly terrified
of becoming separated from him.
"English
pig! How dare you bring your woman aboard to flaunt her in our faces!" An
American voice, that one.
And more French:
"You wait, ze Black Wolf will rescue us! Ze Black Wolf will make you a laughingstock, aristo !"
The clamor grew
louder, and behind her she could hear the marines yelling angrily for order.
Morninghall had released her arm and was just going down the ladder now, his
shoulders set and rigid, his hair gleaming in the dim lantern light.
"Why aren't
these men better dressed than they are?" Gwyneth asked, yelling down to
him over the din. She grasped the coaming and yanked her hand away in disgust
at the grime that soiled her glove. "I thought you said the Transport
Office issues them clothing —"
"They do.
These men, madam , are the very lowest of the low, the Raffalés ,"
he responded, without bothering to turn around. "You will find the
officers, the gentlemen, and the Americans in a more acceptable state of
clothing, breeding and manner."
"Surely,
being of a low social class should not mean they have to go about freezing and
half-naked!" she cried, over the noise.
He looked up at
her over his shoulder. "If they are freezing and half-naked, it's
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