Disclaimer: this is an original story using characters (Amanda Devereau /Montrose /Darieux and Duncan MacLeod, Methos) which are copyright to Davis/Panzer Productions and Gregory Widen. No infringement is intended nor is any income expected from this story.

BLIND JUSTICE
by Maril Swan

Part two of two

"What the devil!" he snarled, swinging off the cot, and planting his feet on the floor. Swaying and nauseous, the army surgeon sought the source of his irritation. His brain was still fuddled with the brandy he had downed in such huge quantities, hoping a drunken stupor would allow his sleep to be uninterrupted by the usual horde of nightmares. The clamour came again, his men laughing in the guard room. Damn their eyes! he thought wrathfully, heading toward the cacophonous laughter. Jerking the door open, he saw his own aide and two of his fellow guards passing a brass telescope between them, watching something on the quay, and making sarcastic comments. No one noticed his entrance at first, then one of the guards caught the movement as Adam entered, and snapped immediately to rigid attention, his eyes focussed front.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said, saluting smartly. The other two soldiers turned quickly and came to attention, their eyes widening in fear. This officer could have them flogged for their conduct while on duty.

"What is so incredibly funny that you should behave in such an unsoldierly manner?" Adam searched the faces of the men, fixing on his aide. "What were you looking at, Harris?" he asked, his voice harsh with fatigue and irritation.

"Begging your pardon, sir," the young soldier said, daring to look at Adam, "We were watching a skirmish on the quay and the convict ship. It seems one of the convicts didn't want to board her, sir," he added, stifling a giggle with a slight cough, and resuming his rigid stance. Choking sounds came from the other two as they failed to control their laughter.

Adam snatched the telescope away and trained it on the black ship flying the red and white banner. Movement on the deck attracted his attention and he focussed the glass on it. A woman seemed to be fighting off several sailors and marines, and was doing a creditable job of keeping them at bay. As he zoomed in closer, Adam gasped, nearly dropping the telescope.

"God in Heaven!" he cried, jamming the scope into the hands of his aide, as he dashed to the door and in an instant, was bounding down the quay toward the convict ship. All weariness and traces of inebriation vanished as Adam pelted over the dock, swerving to miss longshoremen carrying cargo, and leaping over coils of rope and boxes. He watched with horror as the gangplank was drawn up and the lines cast off. The woman and her protagonists disappeared below decks.

Too late! Adam halted at the end of the quay as the ship slid away into the tide. Already beyond hailing distance, the ship's sails were unfurling into the fair breeze and she was underway to her destination – Port Jackson, New South Wales.

His chest knotted so tightly, he bent double trying to get his breath. "Amanda," he gasped, "How in god's name could you let this happen?"

A sob broke from him. Adam knew his nerves were shot as he strove for self-possession. Three years as an army surgeon with the British against Napoleon had nearly broken him. So much death and horror, so many men maimed and dying. Disease and putrefaction, limbs and lives lost, wasted. Finally, after Waterloo, he was on leave, so battle-weary he could hardly think anymore.

He knew his drinking bouts were becoming legendary among his men, but it was all he could do to keep away the nightmares. All Adam wanted now was to resign his commission and retire, retreat somewhere far from armies and politicians, away from the conceits of men who wanted the world for themselves, and were willing to sacrifice other men's lives for it. He was sick to death of war.

And now this!

The ship hove to and rounded a point of land, disappearing from sight. With an effort, Adam straightened, hopelessly staring at the empty sea, realizing the futility of his flight after the ship. What could he have done anyway? Amanda was in the implacable and merciless hands of British justice. A mere army surgeon had no influence, and against such a force of marines, he could not prevail if he tried to rescue her. It was a ludicrous and desperate act, and his men must have thought he had lost his senses completely.

Retracing his steps, Adam struggled with his conscience. She was getting at last what she deserved, was she not? Had he not warned her about Fate? Eventually, it caught up with you. She thumbed her nose at convention and went her own way, a law unto herself. Now the Law had her. Was it justice? His logical mind said it was, his heart said she didn't deserve this fate. All those years, all those crimes, he rationalized. The balance was tipped far over against her. It must be restored. But not like this!

If only they hadn't wakened me, he thought ruefully. I would never have known about her transportation. Years from now, a friend might have said, Isn't it terrible what happened to Amanda?, and I would have agreed. How would I have felt then? Angry, vengeful, impotent rage that I could do nothing? But I do know, and still I can do nothing. He drew a ragged breath, the weight of all his years seeming to settle on his shoulders.

A thought occurred to him and he stopped, considering. With a grim smile, he made a resolve. There was one thing he could do. And he would.

*****

The convict women moved slowly past the First Mate, spoke their names and he checked against his register, acknowledging each carefully. Amanda stepped up to the table which was set on the main deck, and waited. The officer looked up, his eyes widening in surprise as he seemed at a loss for a moment. Recovering, he said brusquely, "Name."

"Amanda Devereau," she replied, with a slight smile.

The officer checked his list over, looking puzzled, and said, "Your name isn't on my list, Miss Devereau." The captain approached and the officer spoke to him, "Sir, this woman isn't on our list of female transportees. What shall I do?"

"Write her name on the list!" the captain growled.

The officer's hand shook for a second as he filled in Amanda's name in a empty space on his register. Clearly, this was very irregular, but perhaps she was an Irish conspirator. The First Mate glanced at Amanda again, taking in her beauty, her lithe, long frame and the elegant clothing, slightly mussed from her struggles. Her dark eyes challenged him as she stared unblinkingly into his confused gaze. He had never seen anyone like her on a convict ship before. Shaking himself, he snapped, "Next!" and the line moved on, pushing Amanda toward the cluster of convicts crowding together with terrified eyes as the gangplank was hauled up.

Sudden panic seized her at the sight of that last link with the land being broken. She rushed to the ship's rail and nearly made it over but several hands dragged her back. In a fit of wild desperation, she fought with all her strength, but again was overcome by sheer numbers of sailors and marines.

The captain marched over to where the men held Amanda, keeping a tight hold while a marine aimed a pistol at her head. "Put her in isolation. I'll deal with her later. I have a ship to run and don't have time for this..." he ran his eyes over her contemptuously and began to stride back to the poop deck.

"Sir," one of the marines called, "There isn't a place on this ship to spare. Where shall we put her?"

The captain whirled, his eyes flashing, and the marine paled visibly. "Put her in the sail locker! Am I the only one on this ship with any brains?" With that he strode off, barking orders at sailors who jumped to his commands. The captain was evidently in a foul mood, and the crew knew what that could mean. No one wanted to incur his wrath as it could mean a severe flogging at the least.

With a cocked pistol held to her head, Amanda allowed herself to be led below to a small door set into a bulkhead. She was pushed into a largish room, redolent of canvas and creosote, and so filled with canvas and sails, there was hardly enough room to move. Ducking her head, she sat down heavily on the bale of canvas as the door was shut firmly and a bar dropped on the outside. Cracks of light entered here and there, alleviating the pitch darkness, and Amanda struggled against the claustrophobia which threatened to overwhelm her.

The ship's timbers groaned as the sails were unfurled. A calm sea with a fair wind rocked the ship gently, and the susurration of the waves sliding by the hull soon lulled Amanda into a deep sleep. She dreamed of herself and Dexter, making love in that inn, and laughingly planning their daring theft of the Crown treasury.

The scraping of the bar being drawn back awakened her, and she started, disoriented for a moment. She squinted against the sudden light as the door opened to reveal a sailor with a lantern. He held the lantern aloft, gazing uncertainly at the woman now struggling to emerge from the confines of the locker. Behind him, just inside the pool of light, stood two marines with their muskets levelled at her.

"The Captain sends his compliments, ma'm..." he began.

"And I'd like to send my compliments to your Captain, for this charming accommodation!" Amanda retorted angrily, gesturing toward the sail locker. She glared at the young lad, barely more than a cabin boy, and he looked down at his bare feet, confused and tongue-tied.

Overcoming his bashfulness, the lad continued, "The Captain asks the pleasure of your company at his table for the evening meal, ma'm." He stepped back, evidently relieved to have delivered his message, and awaited her answer.

Amanda laughed harshly. The sound startled the men, and they tensed, ready for another onslaught of rebellion. "Lead on, MacDuff," she merely said.

Hours of confinement and the rolling of the ship caused Amanda to stagger as if drunk, adding to her chagrin. She would get her sea-legs soon, but meanwhile it was mortifying to have the men offer to steady her as she made her way up the stairway to the upper deck.

On deck, the air was fresh and brisk as strong winds snapped the sails. It was early evening and Amanda noted Venus rising into the cloudless twilight sky. Breathing deeply, she tried to expel the noisome odour of creosote from her lungs with the moist, salty tang of the sea. She felt steadier as she followed the lad to a cabin door on which he knocked politely.

In answer to the summons, the young man opened the door to the Captain's cabin, allowing Amanda to precede him. "Miss Devereau, sir," he said, with a formality that made Amanda smile.

"Thank you, Jenkins," the Captain replied and wearily waved his hand in dismissal. He arose from his table which was already laid with cutlery and glasses in preparation for the meal. Stepping around the table, Captain Ames pulled out a chair for Amanda and she seated herself.

For a long moment, Captain Ames studied her in the flickering candlelight as if marshalling his thoughts. Finally, he said, "You have already caused a great deal of trouble on my ship, Miss Devereau, and in the ordinary way of things, I would have dealt severely with you. But you are no ordinary convict, are you?"

"I am no convict at all, Captain. You know I don't belong here. I had no trial, no conviction. I was kidnapped and forced aboard this ship. You may put me ashore at your first port of call, and nothing more will be said of this."

"These documents say otherwise, Miss Devereau. Your transportation orders by way of the King's Mercy, and signed by a judge in Southampton," he said, tapping a bundle of papers, sealed and tied, that resided near his elbow. "Mr. Whitcombe entrusted these to me when we met before you came aboard. I will turn them, and you, over to the Government agents at Port Jackson." He watched her reaction warily, expecting a violent outburst. She tensed, colour leaving her face, and in that stillness, Ames sensed menace, like a viper preparing to strike.

Several moments passed as Amanda strove for self-possession, knowing it would be futile to attack the captain. His men would be nearby, ready to intervene.

"Then," she said almost inaudibly, "let us have our meal. I suspect it will be the last of this quality for some time, for me." In those dark eyes which glittered in the candlelight, Ames saw the coldness of eternity, like an ancient curse reaching into his very soul, and he was shaken.

******

Amanda writes:

By a dint of hard bargaining and some coercion, which included the loss of the gold ring Duncan gave me, I was able to obtain this journal and a pencil lead from the boatswain. Just having these leaves in my possession will occasion a very harsh punishment on me, such as I have heard and seen inflicted on the other convicts, male and female. I must keep this journal hidden so I may record what I would never have believed had I not lived through it myself.

My meal with the Captain was a stilted affair and the food might as well have been dust for all the flavour I enjoyed from it. The revelation of Whitcombe's treachery in suborning a judge to forge conviction and transportation documents fairly took my appetite away.

During the meal, I amused my mind by planning an escape or a mutiny, which seems impossible to put into action, given the number of marines on board, and the security in which our persons are kept. Some convicts, the worse ones supposedly, are kept in chains. At all times, we are watched by armed marines. Even the slight recreation on the deck is supervised so closely that it seems there is never a respite from their continual surveillance. As well, I suspect there are informers planted in our midst to prevent any plans for escape from ever developing past speculation.

However, one must never give up hope, and there are many ports of call between England and New South Wales.

******

"Is the food not to your liking, Miss Devereau?" the captain asked solicitously, as he offered to recharge her wine glass.

Covering her glass with her hand, she replied, "It was excellent, Captain. May I take some of it with me to share amongst the other female convicts? And no more wine for me. I am unused to the motion of the sea. You understand?"

Observing the captain closely, Amanda leaned forward and said, "You know, Captain Ames, I have heard that many convicts die on their way to Botany Bay. It would be a fairly simple matter to stage my death, then bury me at sea near enough to land that I might swim for it. I am a strong swimmer. And I am quite wealthy, and have many influential friends in England and Europe. You could retire from the sea a rich man if you assist me to escape before we reach Australia." Amanda settled back in her chair to gauge his reaction.

The Captain's eyes narrowed speculatively as he considered her proposal. He chuckled, then said, "Miss Devereau, if I had a farthing for every convict who has made this offer to me, I would already be a rich man. Even should I be so dishonourable as to entertain this plot, there is no way to carry it off. We have a naval officer on board, our surgeon-superintendent, who oversees the health of the transportees. You would have to engage him in your scheme as well. The more who are involved, the greater the chance of discovery."

He picked up his wine glass, twirling its ruby contents meditatively, then continued, "Lord Harwood is a man of great wealth and influence. And he is my patron. This will be my last voyage to that accursed shore. After this, I have enough laid by to retire to my little place near Lyme Regis where I hope to erase all memory of these hellish trips while enjoying the serenity of my declining years. I have no wish to incur the wrath of Lord Harwood by crossing him and allowing you to escape your lawful punishment."

Amanda leapt to her feet, knocking over her chair, and the Captain reached instinctively for the hilt of his sword. "I should have known! You're Harwood's man," she hissed. "Bought and paid for, like a whore!"

Captain Ames stood and drawing his sword, moved toward her menacingly, his eyes glittering with rage. "Let me make your situation clear to you, Miss Devereau. On this ship, I am the law. You have no rights and only such privileges as I allow. This ship and all upon it are my responsibility, a responsibility I do not take lightly. Anyone who interferes with the safe operation of my ship will be punished severely. If I discover any plots to mutiny or escape, the perpetrators will feel the full force of my wrath. Do not think your gender will save you. I have hanged or flogged women convicts before."

He strode to the door, and opening it, beckoned to a marine standing at attention. "Take Miss Devereau to the women's quarters. And guard her closely. She is not to be trusted for a second."

"Aye, sir," the marine answered, raising his pistol as Amanda brushed past him.

*****

Amanda writes:

The women are sequestered in what must have been the cargo hold before this ship was commissioned as a convict transport. Wooden racks, about four feet wide, serve as sleeping pallets, with three women to a pallet. They are like wide shelves with only about two feet of head space between each so there is little room to move. I have counted close to one hundred and fifty women in this little living space. I imagine the men convicts fare no better, though we never see them.

Across the doorway, an iron grating is held in place by a lock. It would be a simple matter to pick this lock, but what then? With no weapons, any escapees would have no chance against the marines.

Twice a day, we are allowed on deck for exercise and fresh air. A tall barrier encloses this area and marines stand guard with fixed bayonets in case anyone has the crazed notion of trying to escape. The relief of being on deck cannot be imagined after the fetid atmosphere of the hold. There are no portholes, the only air coming in from the grated doorway, always redolent of tar and bilge. As we travel further south, the heat becomes almost intolerable.

Thus far, the seas have been calm and the winds fair, but as it is early fall, I fear we will encounter storms before long as we sail toward the antipodes. I have my sea legs now, though many of the women have mal de mer which adds greatly to their distress.

*****

"Oh, la la," sang a blowsy woman, mincing daintily as Amanda was pushed through the doorway into the hold with the other female convicts. "If it ain't ‘er ladyship, come to see ‘ow the other ‘alf lives." She mocked a curtsey amid a few giggles from the other women.

"That's right, Betsy," replied a woman, from somewhere in the dimness. "Put ‘er in ‘er place."

Amanda glanced around, past the cluster of women, into the dark hold at the untidy racks that served for sleeping. All seemed to be occupied by someone's belongings. "Where shall I sleep?" she asked, turning her attention to the woman called Betsy, who seemed to be a sort of leader. She was a dumpy, pock-marked woman of about forty, unclean and unkempt of appearance with straggling reddish hair. Addressing her remarks to Betsy, Amanda asked, "Is there an empty pallet for me?"

"Up top there," replied Betsy, pointing to a space on a pallet near the ceiling. Obviously, the upper pallets were the least desirable due to the heat as well as insects and rodents which infested the place and ran freely across the ceiling.

Amanda climbed up the short ladder and placed her leather satchel on her sleeping area. The only items she was able to take from Lord Harwood's were some clothing and a small purse of money. She had her usual cache of jewels sewn into her garments, safe from her fellow travellers but available when needed.

"Well," she said, turning with a smile to the assembled women, "My name is Amanda. It looks like we'll all be together for a while, so let's at least be courteous to each other." Searching each face, she looked for some sign of friendliness. A ragtag bunch they were, having spent months on the hulks of Portsmouth harbour and probably before that, incarcerated in gaol. All of the women wore dirty prison smocks, patched with a multitude of coloured swatches. Their faces and hair did not bear close inspection. Amanda realized with a slight shudder, she was likely the only one in that company without lice or other parasites. As she gazed across the group of over a hundred women of various ages, her eye lit upon a smiling face. With some relief at finding at least one person who seemed friendly, Amanda gave the young woman an open smile, and made her way toward her.

The women parted reluctantly to allow Amanda to reach the young woman. She was petite with a pretty elfin face surrounded by curly auburn hair. Her eyes were her best feature—a deep green hue with flecks of gold. The young woman blushed at being the centre of attention, and Amanda deduced she was a timid girl, and unused to this much notice. Amanda put out her hand and the young girl took it shyly.

"I'm Maureen," she said in a lilting Irish accent, her cheeks reddening even more. She added, "Pleased to meet you, Miss Amanda."

"It's just Amanda, Maureen. And I'm very pleased to meet you too. I'm sure we'll all get acquainted as time goes on," Amanda added with as much sincerity as she could muster. She glanced around the rest of the women, feeling very much an outsider in this group which had probably been together for months, and knew each other well. Like an exclusive club of which she was not a member, she felt, sensing the coolness with which they received her overtures of friendship.

Maureen peered up at Amanda, her green eyes wide with awe, measuring her own modest height against the elegantly dressed woman who smiled down upon her. "You're so tall for a woman," she breathed, "Me own brother isn't so tall as you." Blushing at her seeming impertinence, she continued respectfully, "If you'll pardon me saying so, ma'm, you don't look like you belong with the likes of us." Among the women, murmurs of assent could be heard and Amanda sensed an easing of the tension in the group.

"In a way, I suppose I do, though I was falsely accused of a crime and transported without a trial." Several gasps resounded through the hold, and the murmur became a clamour of outrage. They were on her side suddenly, and Amanda felt enclosed by a phalanx of female strength, protecting and warm, defiant and unyielding. Tears pricked behind her eyes as she was enfolded and supported by their anger at the injustice against one of their own. Bad enough for the guilty to be transported, but to send an innocent woman to that accursed place! Shouts of protest and threats of reprisals rose from several women, to be picked up by others, until a cacophony of voices and hammering and stamping brought the unwanted attention of the marines.

A loud bellow from the sergeant finally penetrated the din, followed by a tense silence. The florid-faced sergeant shouted angrily, "Any more o'that ruckus, and you'll be on short rations!" Peering in through the grating, he said, "Who started this riot? We don't put up with mutinies on ship. There will be punishment for all if ye don't quiet down!"

Amanda stepped forward to face the sergeant. "It was my fault. Just a little hen fight and nothing more. It's all over now." She turned to the other women and sensed they were with her. It was a good feeling.

To be continued... Amanda arrives with the transportees at Port Jackson, and begins the life of a convict in the penal colony.

©Blind Justice - Maril Swan - July 2000

Please send your comments about this story to the author, Maril Swan