-= 164 =-
Nova Scotia
July 1784
Babylon in all its desolation is a sight not so awful as that of the human mind in ruins.
- Scope Beardmore Davies (d. 1852)
A woman's scream pierced the morning air as His Majesty's Ship
Reliance threaded through the shipping in Halifax harbor. She moved slowly, on coursers and a single spritsail alone. Few of her sails survived her rumble with
Ranger, and many of the spares had been exposed to water long enough to mould alarmingly.
Most of her masts therefore were bare, not to mention bound with thick ropes to hold together despite the damage wrought by her American counterpart. She listed badly also, water from the pumps pouring from her in continuous streams. Captain Adam Bristol, standing stiffly on his quarterdeck in full uniform, hoped this was the reason two brigs and a frigate so far had signaled offering assistance and not the shrieking from below.
His crew crept along deck, shocked and terrified by her cries. They had a right Jonah aboard, to be certain, and even with the shore clearly in sight
Reliance was by no means safe.
"Send word for the surgeon!" snarled Bristol.
"Aye, sir!" A little midshipman fled.
"Sir!
Defiant is signaling!" called the signal yeoman.
"Tell him we don't need his bloody assistance and just leave the flags up this time!" Bristol closed his eyes and turned to his new lieutenant, Mr. Dawson. "Are the guns primed for the signal?"
Dawson looked quite as terrified as his men. "Aye, sir."
"Very well. In two minutes we'll come about." He glanced at the spot where his wheel should be. "I want two men on each side of the tackle controlling our rudder. I want this done smartly."
The midshipman approached. "Mr. Ramstein's compliments, sir. He begs to be excused, as he's with Mrs... the lady. He will report as soon as he may."
Bristol glared, then nodded. "That is probably the best place for him now. God help us all."
"Amen," murmured Dawson.
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I warned him this would result without the light, Ramstein crouched next to his patient, who sat on the floor glaring at him. Her blond hair flew wildly in all directions, and her dress was worn, crumpled and covered with dust and the occasional bit of tar that slipped through the ship's seams. Being the only woman on board, there was none to help her care for herself. "Madam, you must take physic."
Foster snarled like a caged animal, which at the moment was about right. The marine behind Ramstein stiffened, but so far she'd offered no violence whatsoever. He held his lantern high and she flinched as the light stabbed her eyes. They'd been obliged to remove her own lamp several days earlier when, in her passion, she'd knocked the lamp down and nearly set the ship on fire. Already somewhat unstable, obsessed with Heyward and what would happen in Halifax, left in the darkness, alone behind a wooden grate designed to keep her there...
"Mrs. Foster!" Ramstein reached for her. She screamed and smacked his hand away. Several decks above them, Captain Bristol cringed.
Ramstein suggested allowing her on deck for a few hours each day, under escort of course, hoping the fresh air and light would stave off madness. Bristol refused citing the good of the service.
As if this does us any credit, he thought. "Madam, take your..." Ramstein sighed as she turned away. He'd hoped to avoid this. "Private, seize her."
The marine swallowed. His training hadn't prepared him for raving women. "Aye, sir." He placed his lamp on a barrel and walked past the doctor.
Foster screamed and backed away, but there was nowhere to go. He knelt beside her. She answered by punching him in the jaw, making his head snap back.
"Mrs. Foster!"
Her next attack barely missed. She howled as she struck his belt buckle. The private retaliated by backhanding her.
"Private!" Ramstein snapped.
"Always answered for my pa," the private muttered defensively.
It didn't answer here. Rather than being cowed, this encouraged her to try raking his eyes out. The marine twisted his face away and she scored across his cheek. He grit his teeth against the pain and finally,
finally managed to grab her wrists.
She screamed once, then again as Ramstein grimly moved in and gripped her jaw. One hundred...no, two hundred drops of laudanum would hopefully put her to sleep long enough to find a hospital. She twisted violently and tried to spit out the liquid, but Ramstein held her jaw closed until she swallowed.
"Medicine has no answer to life long illnesses," he said, "but with recent traumas such as we see here, there are certainly measures at our disposal." Whether he said this to comfort her, the marine, or himself didn't appear. Ramstein was at sea with mental illnesses - the worst he ever saw were occasional melancholics who did well enough once used to their surroundings with occasional starting against lethargy. Finally he relaxed and sat back. "You can release her, private."
He obeyed. Foster continued to glare at them, but at least she'd quieted down.
Ramstein rose. "Let me see your face." He turned the private's head this way and that. "Just so. No damage, though I'm sure it stings, Here, take my handkerchief and hold it to your cheek until the bleeding stops. Good."
Over their heads their guns signaled
Reliance's presence to the port admiral.
"I will report to the captain. The sooner she is gone, the better for us all I think." The surgeon nodded at his now docile patient. "Wait here until I return."
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Foster watched him leave. He left the grate caging her in open, and she too knew what the cannon firing overhead meant. It was now or never.
She knew Ramstein wanted to kill her. These last few days her mind worked so much more quickly and accurately, it was child's play to see through his deception. Even now she could feel his poison coursing through her limbs, trying to deaden them and quiet her mind. Angrily she fought against it.
Foster fought her entire life to get away from the perpetual hell of her childhood in the slums of London, warding off thieves, muggers and rapists all. She'd risen as high as any could without advantages of birth, and now they wanted to take it all away. Jealous, the lot of them. Jealous that a woman could rise so high. Yes, she saw through their treachery now. She knew perfectly well what that coxcomb of a marine was thinking: That his comrades would be busy docking the ship for an hour yet, that they were alone, that even were she to scream no one would come.
Well, she'd once again defy fate. She wouldn't go back to St. Giles. They couldn't make her. Never! She'd rather die.
"You first," she swore, stumbling to her feet.
The marine, jerked out of a reverie of his family, straightened. "Mrs Foster, please sit down." She didn't comply. "Madam?" He sighed, put away the doctor's handkerchief and reached out to grab her.
She kicked him. Hard. He roared and doubled over, but the guns overhead continued to bellow. "Bitch!" he lunged for her, but Foster pivoted away.
You tried to put me to sleep! she thought.
Now you pay. She darted past him and slammed the wooden grate shut before he could turn.
"Let me out of here!"
"Rot in hell!" she cried. Picking up the marine's lantern she fled deeper in the hold.
God's death, they'll laugh, he thought, but there was no way around it. "Help!"
"Eleven." Eleven guns fired, two to go. Then they'd hear him. Then they'd find her and kill her. Foster thought quickly: Half the crew would be on the main deck, the other half over her head. No chance of hiding, they'd tear the ship apart to stop her now. She ran around the hold looking into various crates: mostly water and food. She hadn't toured the vessel, but knew the armory and spirit room would be on this level, though on the other side of an impregnable bulkhead. Apparently
Reliance's leaks were there since this part of the hold stayed relatively dry.
Twelve. The sails, disgraced by their failure and so moved out of the sail room, lay in a heap next to several barrels claiming to be dried peas. She glared at them then about. How to escape?
"Help!" bellowed the marine. Thirteen. No time left. Foster smiled.
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On deck, Bristol took off his hat. "Well, given the circumstances that was well enough, Mister Dawson. When the port master signals, pray take us..."
"Captain!" cried the yeoman. "
Defiant is signaling again!"
Bristol glared. "Which part of 'no assistance required' are they unaware of?" He looked up the mast at the trail of flags trailing to leeward. "Drop the signal slightly, then back up."
"No, sir!" Bristol's eyes narrowed at the yeoman. "
Defiant says....smoke!"
A midshipman ran up, eyes wide. "Sir, the hold's on fire!"
Men swarmed down the hatches towards the blaze, already spreading to nearby barrels. No one asked questions, or thought twice when they found an imprisoned marine. There would be time for that later, once their ship was safe. None thought to question the slight, cowled figure threading past them up the deck with a bucket, one of several pushing their way up for water.
Bristol stood on deck shouting orders. "Mr. Dawson, take charge of the fire team! Bring the fire-engine forward, mister!" A team of axemen led by the boatswain thrust past them without so much as a 'by your leave' to thrust through the smoke towards the casks below. Men and boys ran on deck for more water, one absurdly dressed in a cowled cloak.
Probably thinks it helps him breathe. He looked up at
Defiant, who apparently decided her sister ship didn't know her business for she'd launched boats to assist, looked down into a marine's pale, sweating face.
"Captain, she escaped. She threw my lamp at the sails!"
"Find her!" Bristol snarled. "She's on ship somewhere, she hasn't gotten far. You, sir! What are you about?" This to the cowled child, who also didn't appear to know his business. "Come here!"
The child turned enough for him to see a spot of blond hair, a savage expression. "There she is!" Roaring furiously he plunged after her. Foster turned and fled aft towards the captain's cabin. "Oh no you don't, God damn your eyes!"
Bristol drew his sword: Woman or not, mad or not, she was trying to sink him! He ran past several startled men. Foster charged downstairs, opened his door and sprinted in, not bothering to close it as he was already leaping downstairs. Past the bread room, past the sleeping cabin.
"Mrs. Foster!" he roared.
Trapped! This was the only way into his main cabin. He swung, expecting her to stop short
She disagreed with his assessment and, leaping, threw herself through the stern gallery and into the sea. Bristol halted, seized his pistols from their case and looked into the swirling water of
Reliance's wake.
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Hours later a lone figure came on shore west of town. She'd spent most of her time underwater, surfacing only to breathe before diving again to avoid attention. It took precious time for that fool Bristol to warn his friends, time when only they sought a person in the water, and it allowed her to escape.
She headed inland, away from Halifax and off the road. First she needed rest, then she'd deal with the ringleader of this plot.
Anne Foster had never seen Boston.
