Convict Girl

Chapter 4

It was twilight. Every step I took, I felt heavier. I was following Smith and Peats to the camp for our supper rations, with Sarah and Mary.

“What is the lash?” I asked Sarah in a low pitched voice. This was the question I had been meaning to ask her since Smith had mentioned it at midday. 

“It’s a whip,” Sarah replied simply. “It’ll cut into your skin after a few of ‘em.” I shuddered at that. I wondered whether I would have to watch anyone receive lashes.

After a few minutes of silence, I asked, “How much food do we get?”

“Us convicts get a third of the men’s ration,” said Mary softly.

“How did you find that out?” I murmured. Mary shrugged.

“I overheard a couple of marines talking with Arthur,” she replied quietly. It took me a moment to figure out who she was talking about.

“Don’t you mean Governor? You could get lashed for calling his that,” I reminded her.

Again, Mary shrugged. “It is his real name.” She was right. Arthur was his real name. Mary was so bold. If there was anyone who could survive this nightmare… it would be her.

°°°

We had been here two weeks now. It was the same thing, every day. Crawling in the gritty sand. Fossicking for shells among the pebbles. Wheeling them back to the camp. Mary and I were becoming better friends all the time. She was an inspiring woman, never tiring, always full of hope and energy, as if she expected us to be set free any moment.

I was sitting around the fire with Sarah, eating our small rations when a grubby hand tapped me on the shoulder; it was Mary.

“Hello Eleanor. Sarah,” she nodded her head, “This is my husband, William.” She presented a handsome, confident-looking man with bright eyes. He thrust out his hand. I took it.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Mary,” he said with a grin. I smiled at him. The day turned into evening, as the four of us sat, sharing stories about England, and the boat ride. William was easy to get along with; with his infectious laughter and honest personality. Soon we were all talking as though we’d grown up together.

°°°

“Shut up, all of you!” yelled Smith. The mariner was standing on a low wooden stage. It had been a month or so since we arrived here. The convicts that had been called from their work fell silent. “This man ran away.” Two guards brought a young man up onto the stage, and threw him onto a wooden bench. Smith continued, “He will be flogged. This is what will happen to anyone who attempts to escape.”

The bolter lifted his head. Our eyes met, and he smiled weakly at me. From what I could make out, he was a tall young man with dark hair. A man garbed in black took out a whip. He raised it high, and brought it with a crack over his bare back. He cried out in agony. Sarah grabbed tightly onto my hand, and William took the other. I don’t know how many times they whipped him, but by the time it was finished, he was only half-conscious, slumped over the bench, his back dripping with blood.

The convicts were dismissed to go back to their jobs. I was nearly in tears. The bolter had cried out in pain every time the lash came down across his back. Then the whip went back over its work, carving deeper into his skin. It had been torture to watch.

“Eleanor Stone. Mary Bryant.” We turned. Smith stood over the bolter’s limp body and beckoned us over. “Take the body to the sea and wash his wounds with the salty water.” Mary nodded, and we lifted up his body, staggering under the weight. We stumbled along the path that led to the sea. We eased his body onto the sand next to the lapping water. Mary nudged the bolter’s shoulder. He stirred, and his eyelids flicked open.

The man groaned in pain. “What’s happening?” he asked, his words slurred with agony. His vivid green eyes looked at me, and back to Mary.

“You can talk later, but now let’s clean your wounds,” Mary interjected. She helped the bolter wriggle into the water, and he winced as the salty water cleansed his wound. When all the blood was gone, I helped him sit up.

“What’s your name?” I asked softly.

“James Cox,” he replied weakly.

“I’m Eleanor Stone,” I said. “Why did you escape?”

“Hate being locked up I suppose,” he mumbled. “I hate being caged and forced to work.” I nodded in sympathy.

This was just the beginning of our friendship. We had much in common, and soon became very close friends. James didn’t try to escape again too soon; the scars left a painful reminder.

A/N for all of my lovely readers who have read this before, i have changed his name. it is not a typo, i simply changed his name becasue it fit better with the actual historical events. i will have a chapter at the end of this story explaining the historical events. love u guys! comment! vote!