Petals on the River

Petals on the river

by

Kathleen E.
 
Woodiwiss

This is a work of fiction.
 
Names, characters, places, and incidents

either are the product of the authors imagination or are used

fictitiously.
 
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations,

or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the

intent of either the author or the publisher.

AVON BOOKS A division of The Hearst Corporation 1350 Avenue of the

Americas New York, New York 10019

Copyright v 1997 by Kathleen E.
 
Woodiwiss

Front cover illustration by

Wendy Popp

Inside back cover author photograph by Nancy Crampton

Published by arrangement with the author

ISBN 1-56865-587-8

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or

portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S.

Copyright Law.
 
For information address Avon books.

AVON TRADEMARK REG.
 
U.S.
 
PAT.
 
OFF.
 
AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA

REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

Printed in the U.S.A.

To my yrandson, Seth Alexander Woodisiss, who was the inspiration for

the young boy in this book Seth is so engaging and delightful to be

around I couldn't help but want to convey those kind of characteristics

in 24ndre<.

I hope I was successful."

CHAPTER 1

Newpovztes Neu7es, Vicgirtia April 25, 1747

The London Pride chafed against the quay as the currents of a rising

nor'easter slowly rocked the vessel on her cables.
 
Close above her

mastheads, errant clouds tumbled in darkening portent of an advancing

storm.
 
Gulls swooped in and out of the ship's rigging, lending their

raucous cries to the rattle of chains as a double file of thin, ragged

convicts stumbled up from the companionway and shuffled in unison across

the weathered planking.
 
The men, hobbled by leg irons and bound to each

other by no more than a fathom's length of chain, were prodded into line

for the bosun's inspection.
 
The women were individually shackled and

could move at their own pace toward the forward hatch where they had

been told to wait.

Farther aft, a common swabber paused in his labors to observe the latter

group.
 
After casting a cautious glance toward the quatterdeck, he grew

bold at the continued absence of Captain Fitch and his bovine wife and

hastily stowed his mop and bucket before ambling across the deck.

Strutting like a well-preened rooster around the shabby women, he

provoked a near-solid bulwark of embittered glares with his leering grin

and brash manner.
 
The singular exception was a dark-eyed, ravenhaired

harlot who had been convicted of lifting the purses of the men she had

bedded and of seriously wounding a goodly number in the process.

She alone offered a promising smile to the tar.

"I aren't seen the bogtrotter round in nigh a week, Mr, Potts," the

strumpet remarked coarsely, tossing a triumphant smirk toward her

glowering companions.
 
"Ye don't suppose the li'l beggar's gone an'

caught her death in the cable her, now do ye?
 
Twould be a right

fittin' comeuppance for biffin' me in the nose."

A small wisp of a woman with limp brown hair pushed her way out of the

cluster of women and gave the harlot a crisp retort.
 
"Ye can twist that

Iyin' tongue all ye want, Morrisa Atcher, but the lot o' us know m'liedy

give ye no more'n ye deserved.
 
The way ye jabbed her in the ribs when

she weren't lookin', ye should've been the one what spent time in the

chain locker!
 
If tweren't for yer li'l lapdoggie here"þshe indicated

Potts with scathing abhorrenceþ"bendin' Mrs.
 
Fitch's ear, m'liedy

might've been allowed ta have her say."

Setting his beefy arms akimbo, Potts faced the small, feisty woman.

"An' ye, Annie Carver, might've done us all a heap o' good fillin' our

sheets with wind from yer ever-flappin' tongue.
 
Ain't no question bout

it, we'd have run ahead soarin' free on that gale."

The sound of dragging chains drifted up from the hold, claiming the

swabber's attention.
 
His small, beady eyes took on a sadistic gleam.

"Well, blimey!
 
I thinks I hear m'liedy comin' now." Chortling to

himself, he lumbered toward the companionway and hunkered down to squint

into the shadows below.
 
"Eh, bogtrotter?
 
Be it yer own bloomin' self

comin' up from em lower chambers?"

Shemaine O'Hearn lifted seething green eyes toward the broad silhouette

looming over the opening.
 
For daring to defend herself against this

oaf's shipboard doxy, she had spent the last four days isolated in a

dank pit in the forward depths of the ship.
 
There she had been forced

to scrap with rats and roaches for every morsel of bread that had been

tossed to her.
 
If not for her sorely depleted strength, she might have

clawed her way up the stairs and raked the tar's ugly visage with ragged

nails, but heavy sarcasm was the most she could muster energy for.
 
"And

what other poor wretch would this smelly toad have come to fetch, if not

me, Mr.
 
Potts?" she asked, jerking her head to indicate the squat,

little man who limped along beside her.

"I was sure you had persuaded Mrs.
 
Fitch to reserve those quarters for

me alone."

Potts heaved an exaggerated sigh of displeasure, making much of her

disparagement.
 
"There ye go, Sh'maine, insultin' me friends again."

Her escort reached out and viciously pinched her arm for a second time

since freeing her from the cable her.
 
Freddy was every bit as mean as

Potts and needed no coaxing to take his spite out on anyone who couldn't

fight back.
 
"Watch yer manners, ye highfalutin tootie!"

"I will, Freddy," she gritted, snatching her arm away from his grubby

fingers, "the very day the lot of you learn some."

Potts's gruff voice resonated through the companionway.
 
"Ye'd better

get up here an' be quick bout it, Sh'maine, or I'll have ta teach ye

nother lesson."

The girl scoffed at the ogre's rapidly diminishing leverage. "Captain

Fitch may have something to say about your heavy-handed ways if he

intends to sell me today."

"The cap'n may have his say, alright," Potts allowed, bestowing a cocky

grin upon her as she struggled to make an ascent hindered by weighty

iron anklets and chains.
 
"But ever'body knows his missus has the final

say on this here voyage."

Since being hauled in shackles aboard the bark, Shemaine had become

convinced that no other place on earth was more akin to the pits of hell

than an English prison ship bound for the colonies.
 
And surely, no

other person had done as much to advance that belief as Gertrude

Turnbull Fitch, wife of its captain and only offspring of J. Horace

Turnbull, solitary owner of the London Pride and a small fleet of other

merchant ships.

With such a formidable reminder as Gertrude Fitch goading her to be

wary, Shemaine paused to readjust a makeshift kerchief over her head.

During several outings on deck, her fiery red tresses had incensed the

dour-faced virago, causing Gertrude to berate the whole Irish race as a

crass, slow-witted lot and to demean Shemaine as a filthy little

bogtrotter, a derogatory appellation many an Englishman was wont to lay

on the Irish.

"Don't ye dare dawdle now," Potts taunted.
 
His pig eyes gleamed

overbright, attesting to his penchant for cruelty as he eagerly watched

for any infraction that he could pounce on.

"I'm coming!
 
I'm coming!" Shemaine muttered testily, emerging from the

passageway.
 
The injustices she had suffered during the threemonth

voyage swept through her mind in bitter recall, sparking her resentment

anew until she longed to spit a token of her rancor in the huge lummox's

face.
 
But experience had been a harsh taskmaster since her arrest in

London, brutally convincing her that a coolheaded compliance was the

only way a prisoner could ever hope to survive in an English court of

law or on one of their hell ships.

Averse to revealing any hint of her waning strength, Shemaine managed to

drag her encumbered limbs forward with a modicum of dignity.

The scourging wind buffeted her, and she braced her bare feet slightly

apart to steady herself and straightened her spine with tenacious

resolve.
 
The fresh air was a luxury that had become much too rare of

late, and she lifted her head to slowly savor the salt-tinged essence of

the coastal waters.

Potts's eyes narrowed as he noted the girl's stance.
 
It seemed much too

proud and undaunted to suit him.
 
"Puttin' on airs gain, are ye?
 
Like

some high-flown doxy from court." Sweeping a hand downward to indicate

her tattered garments, he brayed in loud amusement, "Beggars' court in

Whitefriars, I'd be a-thinkin'!"

Shemaine had no difficulty imagining how pathetic she looked in soiled

rags and iron fetters.
 
Though her green velvet riding habit had once

drawn envious stares from many overly pampered daughters of wealthy

aristocrats (those same who had pettishly bemoaned her betrothal to the

most handsome and possibly the richest bachelor in all of London), her

present plight might have caused those same ladies to laugh in haughty

pleasure.

Shemaine's forlorn sigh was certainly more heartfelt than feigned.

Having known only a life of comfort and ease before her arrest, she had

been thrust without cause into a vile prison where the pitifully

destitute found naught but hatred, oppression and utter despair.
 
" Tis

indeed a dreadful inconvenience when a gentle-born lady must go abroad