their
own damned fault. They gamble away their clothing, their hammocks, even their
food, going hungry during the day then slinking around like rats at night and
devouring the crumbs left on the deck. What do you want me to do about it,
forbid the gaming? Christ, I'd have a damned mutiny on my hands."
Gwyneth's jaw
snapped shut, for she had no answer to that. She felt suffocated. She
continued down the hatch, terrified of losing Morninghall, each step bringing
her into hotter air, louder noise, more terrible smells. It was all she could
do not to draw her handkerchief and press it to her nose. She took tiny
breaths, each one an anguish in itself.
She reached the
bottom of the ladder and found herself on another deck. Sweat was now trickling
down her brow and the curve of her spine, and the air was unbreathable.
Instinctively, she reached for her handkerchief; then, coughing, she crumpled
it in her fist. If these poor people could endure such air — for months,
sometimes years, on end — she, who had to suffer it for only a brief time,
would not make them feel even more wretched, more humiliated, by refusing to
share their plight. Determined to ignore her discomfort, she peered through
the gloom, the shifting wall of unwashed, skeletal bodies, and saw a small
group of prisoners sitting on a little bench, one of them, finer dressed than
the others, holding a book.
"What are
they doing?" Gwyneth asked.
"Damned if
I know," the marquess retorted, giving her a look that dared her to
challenge him.
Her temper began
to boil. She clenched her teeth in frustration. Behind her, one of the marines
was just coming down the hatch. "The gentleman's an officer," he
offered, hearing her question. "He's teaching the others English."
The gentleman in
question looked up and inclined his head at Gwyneth, the pitiful attempt at
gallantry tearing at her heart.
"Don't look
so upset, ma'm. These men, they make their own beds, just as His Lordship
says. The Raffalés , they don't care about anything. They gamble away
the clothes right off of their backs, the food right out of their stomachs.
But the rest, they all have their own little trades and professions, teaching
dancing, fencing, drawing and painting, and the like to the others — for a
small fee, of course. They make ship models out of the beef bones or the
bread, sell it to the masses, hold little auctions and such. I know it looks
like hell here, ma'm, but the prisoners, they adapt. Why, the Americans even
elect their own officers to govern them, just as they do in their own
government; make their own laws, define crimes, and mete out punishments.
Cleanest of the lot, though, those Yanks, real fussy about their persons . .
."
His words
blended into a soup of incomprehensible excuses as Gwyneth, feeling faint,
fanned herself with her notebook. "Then why is the stench so bad down
here? Are the latrines never emptied? Are the decks never washed? Are these
men never allowed to bathe?"
Lord Morninghall
was waiting, watching. Flickering lantern light painted his face in tongues of
orange, making it appear diabolic, savage even. "Those things, and
others, are supposed to come about," he muttered darkly, almost to
himself. "But it would appear that the very people one assigns to oversee
such tasks find more interesting things to do."
The marine
flushed, visibly distressed. Seeing that Gwyneth had noted his captain's
cryptic words and was now studying him keenly, he gave a lame smile, trying to
defuse the tension-filled moment. "We don't like to wash the decks too
much, ma'm, especially not in the cooler months. More damp, it just brings on
sickness and such —"
"What about
bathing?"
"Well, er,
yes, some of 'em bathe . . . sometimes . . ."
"Aren't
they given soap ?"
"Soap isn't
something the authorities issue, ma'm. I mean, this isn't a fancy manor house
or anythin' . . ."
"So I
see," she murmured coldly. She
own damned fault. They gamble away their clothing, their hammocks, even their
food, going hungry during the day then slinking around like rats at night and
devouring the crumbs left on the deck. What do you want me to do about it,
forbid the gaming? Christ, I'd have a damned mutiny on my hands."
Gwyneth's jaw
snapped shut, for she had no answer to that. She felt suffocated. She
continued down the hatch, terrified of losing Morninghall, each step bringing
her into hotter air, louder noise, more terrible smells. It was all she could
do not to draw her handkerchief and press it to her nose. She took tiny
breaths, each one an anguish in itself.
She reached the
bottom of the ladder and found herself on another deck. Sweat was now trickling
down her brow and the curve of her spine, and the air was unbreathable.
Instinctively, she reached for her handkerchief; then, coughing, she crumpled
it in her fist. If these poor people could endure such air — for months,
sometimes years, on end — she, who had to suffer it for only a brief time,
would not make them feel even more wretched, more humiliated, by refusing to
share their plight. Determined to ignore her discomfort, she peered through
the gloom, the shifting wall of unwashed, skeletal bodies, and saw a small
group of prisoners sitting on a little bench, one of them, finer dressed than
the others, holding a book.
"What are
they doing?" Gwyneth asked.
"Damned if
I know," the marquess retorted, giving her a look that dared her to
challenge him.
Her temper began
to boil. She clenched her teeth in frustration. Behind her, one of the marines
was just coming down the hatch. "The gentleman's an officer," he
offered, hearing her question. "He's teaching the others English."
The gentleman in
question looked up and inclined his head at Gwyneth, the pitiful attempt at
gallantry tearing at her heart.
"Don't look
so upset, ma'm. These men, they make their own beds, just as His Lordship
says. The Raffalés , they don't care about anything. They gamble away
the clothes right off of their backs, the food right out of their stomachs.
But the rest, they all have their own little trades and professions, teaching
dancing, fencing, drawing and painting, and the like to the others — for a
small fee, of course. They make ship models out of the beef bones or the
bread, sell it to the masses, hold little auctions and such. I know it looks
like hell here, ma'm, but the prisoners, they adapt. Why, the Americans even
elect their own officers to govern them, just as they do in their own
government; make their own laws, define crimes, and mete out punishments.
Cleanest of the lot, though, those Yanks, real fussy about their persons . .
."
His words
blended into a soup of incomprehensible excuses as Gwyneth, feeling faint,
fanned herself with her notebook. "Then why is the stench so bad down
here? Are the latrines never emptied? Are the decks never washed? Are these
men never allowed to bathe?"
Lord Morninghall
was waiting, watching. Flickering lantern light painted his face in tongues of
orange, making it appear diabolic, savage even. "Those things, and
others, are supposed to come about," he muttered darkly, almost to
himself. "But it would appear that the very people one assigns to oversee
such tasks find more interesting things to do."
The marine
flushed, visibly distressed. Seeing that Gwyneth had noted his captain's
cryptic words and was now studying him keenly, he gave a lame smile, trying to
defuse the tension-filled moment. "We don't like to wash the decks too
much, ma'm, especially not in the cooler months. More damp, it just brings on
sickness and such —"
"What about
bathing?"
"Well, er,
yes, some of 'em bathe . . . sometimes . . ."
"Aren't
they given soap ?"
"Soap isn't
something the authorities issue, ma'm. I mean, this isn't a fancy manor house
or anythin' . . ."
"So I
see," she murmured coldly. She
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