Page 100 of Dawnlands

She opened her mouth and then gagged when a dirty fist was pushed into her face and strong soiled fingers jiggled her teeth.

“Not bad,” the voice said approvingly. “What age are you, lad?”

“He’s about twenty,” someone volunteered. “One of the Monmouth scum.”

“As if we didn’t have scum enough!” the man complained.

“Look, d’you want that lad or not?”

“Is he an English boy?” the man asked, taking a pinch of Rowan’s cheek and squeezing it to see the color. “Looks brown. I’d take him for an Indian.”

“He’s from Bristol,” the captain replied. “Who knows?”

“I’ll take him.” The man was like a thick tree, blocking the sun. In his shadow, Rowan stole a quick upward look. Blinded by the sunlight, she could see nothing more than a flushed red face, a shock of grizzled gray hair, and a broad-brimmed hat.

“Property of the queen, price is twenty pounds,” the captain said.

“I’ll give you fifteen,” the man said, unmoved. “God bless Her Majesty. We both know he’ll be dead in a year.”

“He’s indentured for ten,” the captain pointed out. “And from the west country—he’ll likely know how to fish and farm. Worth all of twenty pounds. And he’s not been beaten or broken.”

“Yet,” one of the men said with a short laugh.

“What good is fishing and farming to me? He won’t know how to boil sugar.”

“If he can feed himself, it saves you the trouble,” someone said judiciously.

“I’ll give you seventeen pounds in sugar,” the big man said.

“Done,” the captain said and spat into his palm, as the man did. They slapped palms together and the captain crossed off Rowan’s number in his ledger and unchained her from the manacles.

“How d’you want him?” he said. “Roped?”

“Just the hands,” the man said. He leaned towards Rowan and glared into her face, breathing a gust of sour rum. “I’m Mr. Peabody,” he told her. “You call me ‘sir.’ You follow me back to my farm and you’ll have a little cabin of your own, for a fair day’s work. You run away and I’ll set the dogs on you and beat you when I get you back. You work hard and you get your cabin at the end of your service and ten pounds to start you off. Work hard, and you might make a fortunehere. Cheat me or steal from me, and you’re dancing at the end of a rope and no one will even ask after you. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir,” Rowan said.

The man checked. “That’s not a west country voice,” he accused her. “You’ve got learning?”

“I can read and write,” Rowan said shortly.

“What was your trade?”

Hunting, Rowan thought. Fishing. Running, hoeing weeds beside my mother, playing with my sisters, swimming in the river, trading with the village, weaving, making wampum, singing, making pots, playing in the snow, praying to the Gods, dancing. Out loud she said: “I was in service at a London wharf.”

“I might make you a house servant,” he promised her. “Or a clerk. Or an overseer. If you can read—which I doubt.”

She did not argue, though he glared at her. “Don’t you get above yourself,” he warned her. “You’re the lowest thing there is—a rebel.”

Still she said nothing.

“Lower than a slave. And there’s nothing lower than a slave but a dead dog,” he amended, twitched the rope that the captain had tied around her wrists, and gestured that she should follow him down the ladder to the waiting rowing boat.

She found her legs were too weak to manage the ladder, not even her hands could grip. She slithered down and would have fallen in the boat but her new owner pushed her roughly on the bench. “You a cripple?” he demanded.

She shook her head.

“Lad’s still got sea legs,” the boatman said.