Falsely Accused Read online

  Copyright 2017 Margaret Tanner

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author and publisher. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoy this book, then please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy.

  This story is a work of fiction, and some literary license has been taken regarding setting. All characters are a figment of the author’s imagination.

  Warning: Suitable for adults only. There are explicit sex scenes, including rape, but in the context of the story they are not used gratuitously.

  Cover Art by Susan Horsnell

  Acknowledgement: Thank you Susan Horsnell for your on-going help and support. Couldn’t have done it without you my friend.

  “Thou shall not commit adultery.”

  The nausea rising up in Maryanne’s mouth soured her stomach as her father, the Reverend Silas Watson, pounded on the pulpit with a clenched fist.

  “The evils of the flesh, the wantonness of women in a world tainted by debauchery. The time has come for us, the chosen of God, to purge and cleanse ourselves of such evil. Mark my words, the wrath of the Lord is upon us, and our day of reckoning is nigh,” he ranted.

  Maryanne wanted to get up and denounce him as a fiend. Only the threat of what Fiona might have to endure later stopped her. There wasn’t a God. No God would allow such depravity to go unpunished.

  She caught her stepmother’s pious, holier than thou look and the horror of last night shuddered all the way through her. I must sit here, I must. She closed her eyes, but opened them again quickly, in an effort to blot out the picture of Fiona, her delicate, gentle sister, whose body had been so degraded last night.

  “Harlot, slut, you’re the image of your mother. I’ll rid you of her evil ways,” Silas had snarled.

  Fiona’s desperate pleading had been followed by terrified screams. And Sarah, what kind of woman was she? A woman who forced Maryanne to watch her sister’s violation, as Silas spread-eagled his daughter’s legs and pushed and thrust himself inside her until he was spent.

  The pristine whiteness of sheets that she herself had pummeled and washed, because they could not afford a maid, had been stained vividly red with Fiona’s virginal fluid. Afterwards, poor Fiona lay with her auburn hair cascading over the pillow. No sound passed from her bloodless lips, not a vestige of color remained in her waxen face. It was as if she had already died, even though she still breathed.

  Maryanne’s fingernails gouged into her palms as she sat on the hard wooden pew with her teeth clenched so tightly together her jaw ached. Even a dog should not have been left alone in such a distraught state, yet Silas Watson claimed to be a man of God.

  At least once a week, their father found reason to beat them on their bare buttocks. His clawed, birdlike hands were as strong as those of a blacksmith as he ferociously wielded his cane. Sarah stood there, watching it all, with that pious expression Maryanne loathed.

  They must get away, but how? Could she perhaps get a position as a domestic? Slaving away in a London factory, living in some slum or even the workhouse had to be better than living in a quaint little village that nurtured such evil. As soon as Fiona recovered sufficiently, they would leave. I’ll do anything to get us away from here.

  Maryanne, like a dutiful daughter, stood next to her father and Sarah while the congregation filed out of the church. Her heart felt so full of hatred and loathing, she wondered why it did not explode.

  They walked in silence the few hundred yards to a dark stone house, brooding sullenly in the winter dullness. Maryanne shivered as the wind knifed through the thinness of a parishioner’s cast off black taffeta gown. The seams had been taken in considerably so it fitted her slender figure.

  Inside, the hallway oozed dampness, as Silas considered it sinful to have fires lit anywhere but in the parlor or kitchen. Their parlor was used only for guests, so they normally huddled in the kitchen for warmth. Not that they found much time for idleness with such a large house to be cleaned, and only herself, Sarah and Fiona to do it.

  Silas was not a poor man. How many times had she watched him greedily counting and fingering his growing pile of silver coins? But he was too mean to pay for any outside help.

  As soon as Silas disappeared into his study and Sarah took herself off to the kitchen, Maryanne sped upstairs to check on Fiona. How frail and still she looked. Far too still. She rushed over to the bed, and touched her sister’s ice-cold, waxen cheek.

  Screams spewed from Maryanne’s mouth. Silas charged into the room and his backhander sent her sprawling at the foot of the bed.

  “You killed her. Murderer,” she screamed the words out over and over.

  Three vicious slaps administered in quick succession almost decapitated her, but she struggled upward and threw herself at him, fists and legs flailing.

  Sarah entered the room brandishing a large kitchen knife. They struggled over it like starving animals fighting over the one prey. As Maryanne grabbed the point aimed at her face, she felt the blade slicing through her palm.

  She twisted and turned trying to escape. Sarah suddenly gave a blood-curdling scream as the knife plunged into her shoulder. Silas lunged forward. He rained blows all over Maryanne’s face. Grabbing a handful of hair, he drove her head into the floor, again and again until she lost consciousness.

  ***

  Maryanne woke up with a throbbing headache. Her vision was blurred and her throat felt so dry and scratchy, no sound would come out. Vaguely she remembered liquid being forced past her lips, noise, the movement of a carriage and the words ‘seven years’.

  Where did that vile smell come from? She tried to focus her eyes but couldn’t. Her bed felt cold and hard. Suddenly memories came flooding back, Fiona’s death and Sarah attacking her with a knife. Her body twitched with the shock of remembrance. She had been found guilty of assaulting her stepmother, and was sentenced to transportation to the penal colony of Australia. To be incarcerated there for seven years.

  Maryanne still felt hazy about the happenings of the last few weeks, except the final verdict. Seven years incarceration might as well be life, because few people ever returned from exile. The authorities called her a vicious mad woman, and would not listen to her version of what Silas and Sarah had done to Fiona.

  “You awake now?”

  “What?” She blinked several times in quick succession trying to clear the haze from her eyes. “Where am I?” The question sounded like hers, but the low guttural voice didn’t.

  “Newgate prison. I’m Libby.”

  A young woman’s face came into focus, a woman with flaming red hair that even the dirt and dinginess around them could not hide.

  “They brought you here from the insane asylum, said you tried to murder your stepmother.”

  “She deserved to die, both of them did. It was an accident; we were fighting over the knife and…”

  “You won’t last long on the convict hulks, my pretty.” A toothless old crone leered at her.

  “Shut your mouth, you dirty old hag.” Libby shoved the woman away, and the old thing cackled loudly.

  “What does she mean?”

  Shivering uncontrollably, Maryanne glanced around. She lay slumped against a slimy wall, and her clothes looked as filthy as those of twenty or so other women in this dungeon cell. Her hair, like scattered rats tails, straggled about her shoulders, and she gave a shudder of revulsion because she must smell as dreadful as everyone else.

  “What’s your name?” Libby asked, with a slight Irish brogue.

  “Maryanne Watson. I want to get out of here, I’m innocen
t.”

  “Stay where you are,” Libby hissed fiercely. “Don’t attract attention to yourself. Everyone in Newgate says they’re innocent.”

  “But I am, I am,” she babbled, trying to get control of herself. Why wouldn’t anyone believe her? The slap on her cheek, little more than a tap, instantly stopped her anguished flow of words.

  “Do you want to stay alive, Maryanne Watson?”

  “Yes, doesn’t everyone?”

  “Well, say nothing to attract attention to yourself. Some of these women would kill you, just like that.” Libby snapped her fingers next to Maryanne’s ear. “The turnkeys won’t save you either, here or on the hulks. They only have one use for women.”

  Bile surging into Maryanne’s mouth tasted foul and bitter. Her flesh crawled with terror and she clenched her teeth to stop herself from becoming hysterical.

  “Only the strong will survive, but never fear, I’ve taken a liking to you.” Libby grinned. “God knows why. I’ll look after you as best I can.”

  “Oh, Libby, what if I’m not strong enough?”

  “You are. You’d have died in the insane asylum otherwise.”

  “What are you in here for?” Maryanne asked.

  “I bashed a pimp. Vicious little bastard.”

  “Pimp? You’re a p…prostitute?”

  Maryanne edged away then stopped herself. After witnessing what Silas had inflicted on Fiona, Libby deserved pity not condemnation for surviving such depravity.

  “Not a dockside harlot like most of these sluts, I only went with gentlemen. I did well until I got tangled up with Johnson. I might have gone to the gallows except one of my gentlemen friends used his influence. Seven years transportation, better than a noose I suppose.”

  “Libby, how long will it be before they transport us?”

  “God knows. Some women are here for months before they sail, others, well a batch left yesterday for the docks.”

  A crescendo of shouts and curses interrupted them. “Food’s on.” Dragging Maryanne by the arm, Libby elbowed them forward until they were at the front of a heaving, screaming mass of smelly humanity.

  “You’ll miss out if you don’t get in early.”

  “I couldn’t eat this.” Maryanne shuddered on seeing the congealed, greasy stew like substance.

  “It’s bloody swill, but keeps you alive.”

  Most of the women acted like animals, not even waiting for the guard to dole it out, they just plunged their hands straight into the pot, cursing and swearing.

  Maryanne tried not to gag on the gruel Libby forced into her mouth. “It’s awful, not fit for pigs. Can’t we complain?”

  Libby rocked with laughter. “You’ll have to toughen up, my girl, I told you before. Only the strong will survive. If you really can’t finish it all, I’ll have it. An acquired taste I’m told, young lady.” Her perfect imitation of an aristocrat made Maryanne laugh.

  “Ugh, no more.” Maryanne turned her head away.

  “You didn’t have much.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You soon will be. This is a feast compared to what you get on the hulks.” Libby pulled two coarse looking biscuits out of her pocket and Maryanne forced herself to nibble on one.

  “Where did you get these from?” she asked the Irish girl.

  “A friend.”

  “How?”

  “I bought them, along with a few other things. You can buy extras if you’ve got coin in your pocket.” Libby gave a mirthless laugh. “I’ve got nothing left now; I’ve been here eight months.”

  “Eight months, and you’re still waiting for a ship?” Maryanne wondered fearfully how long she would be able to survive in this dreadful, disease-ridden place.

  “Yes, when my coin ran out, I bartered the only other thing I possessed. I mean to survive, no matter what I have to do.”

  “I’ve got nothing to barter with. All I possess is this old rag I’m wearing.” Maryanne glanced down at the filthy black taffeta gown she had worn for weeks. No wonder she felt so dirty and degraded.

  “I know. That’s why I felt sorry for you when they dumped you off here, you had absolutely nothing. Most of us carried something when we came in, even if it was just a bundle of rags.”

  Two women started grappling over a small lump of meat one had found in her gruel, and within minutes they were fighting like wild dogs. Maryanne watched with a fascinated revulsion, as a third woman scooped up the offending piece of meat and gobbled it down.

  “They’ve reduced us to animals; Jesus, I’m glad I haven’t sunk that low.”

  Maryanne nearly opened her mouth to say don’t blaspheme.

  A young girl started moaning, frenziedly rocking backwards and forwards, and Maryanne looked at the poor thing with pity.

  “Quite mad, you know,” Libby stated forthrightly. “She killed her baby.”

  “She doesn’t look more than about twelve.”

  “Probably isn’t, you grow up quickly in the slums. I’ve seen seven and eight year old girls, and boys for that matter, selling themselves. I started working the streets of Whitechapel at fifteen.”

  Maryanne stared intently at the redhead. Cleaned up she would be beautiful. Sometimes her voice sounded coarse, other times she spoke in refined ladylike tones.

  “It must have been awful.”

  “I hated it the first few weeks, but then I met up with a rich old man. He set me up as his mistress in nice rooms in Chelsea, only he died after a month so I ended up on my own again. Didn’t take me long to get another old gentleman.” She shrugged.

  “I was always someone’s mistress, but I only went with one man at a time until I got mixed up with that bastard Johnson. I loved him,” she said in a voice hardened by bitterness.

  “He kept promising marriage, only we needed to get more money first, arranged clients for me. Charged the swells high prices, yet I gave it to him for nothing, and he kept all the money too. I found out later he had a wife tucked away in a cozy little country cottage. Took her over to Paris twice a year and guess who paid for it?”

  “How horrible.”

  “He got me pregnant, forced me to get rid of it, and did he care?” Her face twisted with remembered pain. “Only worried I might lose too much time from the job. I went back on the game too early. He told me a doctor friend said it was all right. I got really sick, almost died, and the little bastard cleared off. When I got strong enough I went searching for him, found him and belted him over the head with a brick.”

  Haltingly Maryanne told her story. “I had to watch my father violate my sister. He killed her, just as surely as if he had stabbed her with a knife, yet I’m the one being punished.”

  “I know. Men can be such animals, but we’ve survived. Don’t you see, it makes us strong. We can’t afford to be weak,” Libby said. “Let’s make a pact.” They joined hands. “We will survive, no matter what.”

  They repeated the words twice over.

  Maryanne lay down on the cold hard floor. It was horrible having to listen to hacking, consumptive coughs, and women fornicating in the darkness. Finally she slipped into an exhausted sleep.

  “Wake up, we’re leaving.” Libby shook her vigorously.

  “What!” She rubbed the sleep from her stinging, watery eyes. “Where to?”

  “The docks. This is it, Maryanne, we’re on our way to Sydney Town.”

  Maryanne struggled to her feet. “I’m filthy.”

  Libby laughed. “You’re not in the parsonage now.”

  They were ordered to wash in a trough filled with cold, black water. There was only one piece of coarse, hard soap, and Maryanne quickly washed her hair and body. Fortunately, they were amongst the first, thanks to Libby elbowing and pushing them to the front.

  They gave her a drab, brownish/grey gown, made from canvas in the prison sewing shop.

  “Keep your other gown,” Libby instructed. “It is good quality, might be handy later on if you get a chance to wash it.”

  How
humiliating having to lift up her skirt and expose her bare ankles and legs so a ferret-faced turnkey could clamp fetters around her ankles. His vile comments made her cringe inwardly, but Libby’s silent warning forced her to stand still and endure the indignity without complaint. Finally, they were loaded into an open wagon in groups of ten, chained together like rabid dogs.

  Once outside the grim prison walls, she breathed in deeply. Although the cold air, like an obscene cloud permeated with the filth of the slums enveloped them, it smelled fresher than the damp rotting despair of Newgate prison.

  “Libby, I never thought I’d miss a grey English sky,” she said, running her fingers through her tangled, pale gold curls.

  As the wagon clattered along dingy, cobbled streets bereft of any sunlight, they were subjected to the curious stares of passersby, and the crude obscenities of gutter children. Glancing around, she realized most of the convicts appeared young, obviously the old and diseased had been purposely left behind. Only those able to work in the colony were wanted.

  “Will you be sorry to leave England, Libby?” Maryanne heard a young guard ask.

  “No.” In the daylight, Libby’s skin carried the sickly prison pallor, but her flaming red hair shone brightly.

  Libby maneuvered herself so her back blocked off what she did from the others, and Maryanne watched in shocked disbelief, as Libby’s hand slipped inside the soldier’s trousers. She averted her eyes hurriedly, staring straight ahead, trying to ignore the man’s gasps and groans, and the vulgar ditties sung by one of the other women.

  I’m going to live. I’m going to survive this depravity. I am. She clenched her hands together until the wooden side of the wagon lacerated her skin. Her legs ached from the weight of the irons, and already she felt as if the skin on her ankles had been rubbed raw.

  Fear of that unknown land, thousands of miles across the sea almost engulfed her, but she forced the tears burning at the back of her eyes not to fall. Some of the women started wailing and sobbing as the dock area came into view, others cursed virulently. Several ships with tall masts, some fully rigged for sailing, bobbed and rocked on the water.