“Who is it?” Harriet called.
I quickly crushed the paper and shoved it into my pocket, then turned to her. “Just a cabin boy letting us know that there’s a knitting group starting up in the tearoom.” I smiled. “I think I’ll go.”
Hari gave me an odd look. “You’re interested in knitting?”
“Perhaps if I’m to be a mother one day I should learn.”
“I can’t imagine a more boring prospect, but be my guest.”
I told Harriet I would see her later, then said goodbye. Outside, the boy was waiting for me, and I followed him to the lowest deck and through the dark, narrow hallway at the rear. I felt the roll of the ship much more keenly here, and I had to hold the rope handrail to keep my balance. There were no portholes or windows of any kind this low in the water. The air was humid and foul. We were deep in the bowels of the boat, and the sounds of a ship at sea were all around us. Like the old woman she was, the ship groaned and creaked with every gust of wind or ocean swell.
Florence, Emma, and Alice were standing outside Sarah’s cabin.
“We wanted to give her some privacy,” Florence said, pressing my arm. “She’s in a lot of pain. Please, help her.”
I nodded and entered the dim, hot cabin, which smelled musty, like tobacco and beeswax. Inside, there was barely enough space for one person to stand upright with the low ceiling and the four sets of wooden bunk beds. Dr. Carson was attending to Sarah, who was leaning back, knees bent, on the left lower bunk, naked except for a coverlet across her chest. Her wet hair was tied in a knot to the top of her head and perspiration dripped from every feature of her face.
I reached for her hand and leaned in close. “I’m here, Sarah. I’m going to help any way I can.”
“Is that you, Miss Charlotte?” she whispered. “I’m so very grateful, truly I am. This little one is taking its time.”
I turned to Dr. Carson. “How long has she been in labour?”
“Since last night.” He frowned. “The Burks didn’t tell me until this morning.”
I suspected the Burks felt Sarah deserved to suffer for what they perceived as the sin of unwed motherhood. I took a cloth and patted Sarah’s brow. “You must be exhausted.”
She didn’t reply, just squeezed my hand tightly and let out a slow moan that built in intensity. She curled her body forward as if wanting to bear down.
“Hold on,” Dr. Carson said. “This contraction’s almost done. They’re coming faster now. It’ll be time to push soon, but not yet. When you feel the urge to push, start panting until it passes.”
Sarah fell back on the cot, breathless. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”
“You’re doing so well, Sarah,” I said. “You’re almost there. Soon, you’ll be holding your baby in your arms, won’t she, Dr. Carson?”
But he was bent over her belly with his stethoscope and listening intently.
“What can you hear?”
He pulled the device from his ears and straightened up. “The baby’s heartbeat.”
“Did you hear that, Sarah? Your baby’s heart is beating.” But she had dozed off. I turned to Dr. Carson, who had a grim look on his face.
“She’s been in hard labour for over five hours,” he said, pulling out his pocket watch and taking Sarah’s pulse. “She needs to deliver the baby soon.”
Sarah began to moan again as another contraction swept over her. I mopped her brow with a damp cloth and murmured encouragement. When it passed, she collapsed back on her pillows and drifted off again.
“She’s ready to push, but the contractions are not forcing the baby into the birth canal,” Dr. Carson said after an hour more had passed with no change. He scrubbed his unshaven jaw with both hands. “I know how to fix broken bones, but not this. She’s very weak. The baby’s heart rate is slowing as well. There’s not much time.”
I had heard those same words before, in another place and time. My mind flashed to an image of Dr. Boyd, the veterinary surgeon, as he struggled to help one of our mares give birth on our farm. The mother was ready, but the foal wouldn’t come. But Dr. Boyd knew what to do and he had shown me. I didn’t know if it would work for Sarah, but I had to ask.
“When that same thing happened to mares on our farm, the problem was the position of the foal, but our veterinary surgeon was able to change it. Would we be able to feel the baby through Sarah’s stomach, to check its position?”
“We can try.”
Dr. Carson started with Sarah’s stomach, gently prodding, feeling for the outline of the baby, its limbs, back, head, and bottom. It looked like he was gently kneading dough, but as he worked I saw Sarah’s muscles become rigid. Another contraction was coming. Sarah didn’t fight the pain but let the contraction take hold of her, too weak now to cry out. It washed over her, producing nothing. The baby had not moved. Dr. Carson’s face was grey, his mouth tight.
“I have to feel the baby’s head,” Dr. Carson said to Sarah, but her eyes were closed. He gently pushed his hand up into the birth canal. “I think the position of the crown is wrong. It’s facing the wrong way. The contractions must be thrusting the largest part of the head into the base of the spine instead of the birth canal.”
“Can you turn it?” I asked.
“I’m going to try,” Dr. Carson said. “She’ll have to stay as still as possible. It will be very painful.”
“Sarah, listen to me,” I said, shaking her awake. “We know how to get the baby to come out. This is going to hurt, but you need to try not to move while we shift the baby’s position.” I spoke directly into her ear. “Do you understand me?”
Her eyes were blank, lost in a sea of pain, but she squeezed my hand and nodded faintly.
We didn’t need the precautions. I knew how painful it must be for Sarah, but she had lost so much of her strength that she didn’t fight us. Dr. Carson’s fingers gripped as much of the baby as he could and applied pressure, rotating the head and shoulders. I caught Dr. Carson’s eye and smiled. He had changed the position.
“Now, Sarah, get ready to push on the next contraction,” he said.
But then, Sarah’s stomach rippled again, and Dr. Carson shook his head at me. It wasn’t a contraction. The baby had flipped back to its original position. I looked at Sarah. Her eyes fluttered in and out of consciousness, and her hands lay limp on the bed. I couldn’t just sit there and watch this lovely young woman and her baby die. The only thing we could do was to try again. With precious time running out, I stepped forward.
“Let me try,” I said. “My hands are smaller than yours, and I might get a better grip on the baby.”
Dr. Carson shrugged, but pointed to the washbasin set on a small chair between two of the bunks in one corner of the room. As I washed my hands and forearms thoroughly as he had taught me, I tried to visualize Dr. Boyd’s actions during the birth of the foal. It had been such an emotional experience for me; I had a very clear memory.
I moved towards the end of the bed and took a deep breath, then pushed my hands into the birth canal, feeling for the baby’s head. With all ten fingers, I gripped it as strongly as I dared and rotated clockwise. Again, there was movement, but the timing was perfect. A strong contraction immediately followed, and Sarah’s body took over, as if relieved to be able to do what it needed to.
“I see the head!” I cried. “Push, Sarah, push!”
Sarah was suddenly awake, her eyes wide and focused, pushing with all her might. Dr. Carson came to my side and within seconds, the baby emerged, slippery and wet, and we caught it in our hands. Its little lungs filled with air and it let out a life-claiming cry.
“It’s a boy!” I said. “Sarah, you did it.”
Dr. Carson worked furiously to cut the umbilical cord and clean out the baby’s mouth and nose before presenting him to Sarah. “Well done! Here is your son.”
Sarah held her baby to her bare chest and ran her hand over his limbs, counting his toes and fingers. “He’s perfect.”
&nbs
p; “Of course he is,” I said. “And look at that hair.”
She smiled, smoothing his matted dark curls and kissing him on the forehead.
I went to the door and let in Florence, Emma, and Alice, who rushed to Sarah’s side with water, towels, and a little food. They congratulated Sarah and admired the new baby, giggling at his angry, indignant cries. A new peace settled over the room. I stood watching the scene, stunned at what had just transpired.
Dr. Carson turned to me, tired relief in his eyes. “You saved a mother and baby today. You should be proud.”
I wiped my eyes, which had grown wet again with fresh tears. “I am.”
Chapter Twenty
When I returned to the cabin, I was beaming ear to ear.
“I didn’t know you enjoyed knitting so much,” Harriet commented and I instantly sobered.
“I think I’m just tired. Too much squinting at the yarn.”
I was grateful when she suggested we both order a supper tray and stay in for the evening. If the Burks were at dinner, I was sure they would make disparaging comments about unwed emigrant mothers, and I was in no mood to suffer their nonsense.
The next morning, I woke early to the sounds of the ship springing to life, the drumbeat of many scurrying feet, the call and response of orders echoing throughout the vessel. The thick ropes whipped through cleats, and then came the hard snap of sails stretched tight by the wind. The ship was once again under full sail. But my first thought was for Sarah, and I rose, dressing quickly, and scurried out of my cabin, taking the servants’ route to the lowest deck. As I passed through the kitchen, the clatter of large metal cooking pots accompanied the cook’s cussing.
“Porridge will be ready when I say it’s bloody ready,” he shouted to the crew. “Leave me alone and stop pestering me, you nackle-ass buggers.”
I kept moving towards Sarah’s cabin. At my gentle knock, she beckoned me in. Sarah was sitting up with her baby and she smiled at me as I entered. Her face no longer was a mask of pain.
“Have you had anything to eat yet?” I asked.
She shook her head. “The others just left to cook breakfast. It’ll take awhile.” Her voice was a whisper croaked from a dry throat.
As a first-class passenger, I could take breakfast anytime. “How about some porridge with a little milk? I can run off to the galley.”
“Yes, please, and tea too. I would love some tea.”
“Of course.” I headed for the kitchen.
Juggling a breakfast tray, I backed into Sarah’s room, pushing open the door to the cabin with my derrière. I set the tray across her lap, then took the baby from her. I felt a surge of affection for the tiny being I held in my arms.
“Have you given this little one a name?” I asked, nuzzling him. He smelled of mother’s milk and mild soap.
“Aye, Jacob, after his father. He was a fine, strong man. This little man will always remind me of him.”
“It’s a lovely name.”
I watched with satisfaction as she took a long drink of the milk and sugar-sweetened tea before attacking her porridge with the dedication of someone who had not eaten in over a day.
When she was finished, I handed Jacob back, and she grasped my hand. “You saved me, and now my son will get a chance at life. He’ll meet his grandpa in the New World.”
“I’m just happy to have helped.”
“I want to give you something as a thank-you.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I said. I was sure she could ill afford any sort of gift, but hugging Jacob to her chest, Sarah padded across the floor to her small trunk where she retrieved a leather satchel. She pulled loose the ribbon that held the cover closed, and sifted through a small stack of vanilla-coloured parchment papers bearing official-looking stamps. She handed me one, then settled back on the bed.
“What’s this?”
She pointed to a flurry of signatures and imprint seals and I read Bearer Certificate, One Share, China Bar Claim, struck in accordance with the laws of the Colony of British Columbia, July 1859.
“My father buys this sort of thing all the time. They’re shares in a mining claim that looks promising. He pays a few coins and then sells them when they hit pay dirt. Father’s always been so very clever. I want you to have one.”
“I can’t possibly take it, Sarah.”
She rocked Jacob back and forth. “It’s yours. Please. It’s only one share; Father sent me ten. Right now, it’s not worth much. But if they strike it rich, who knows?”
I could see her feelings would be hurt if I continued to refuse, so I relented.
“Tell me about your father. How is it that he came to settle in the colonies?”
“His name is Henry Roy. I’m very proud of him and so I went back to my maiden name after Jacob died. He went to British Columbia two years ago to try to find something better. He had a hard time of it in England, couldn’t get work.” She paused, studying me closely. “He’s not white, you see. He was once a slave in Brazil. I don’t tell that to everyone.”
“Oh,” I said, letting her words sink in. “I thought you were Spanish or from the north of France.”
“Most people do.” She looked at me. “It makes things easier for me.”
“Why did you tell me? Do the other women know?”
She shrugged. “You saved Jacob’s life, Charlotte, and mine. I want you to know who I truly am.”
“You’re not the only one with secrets,” I said, then told her how I had come to be on the Tynemouth. Last night had forged a new bond between us, and I felt I could trust her, and finally being able to share my secret with someone other than Hari relieved some of the weight on my shoulders. I didn’t relay all the details, but enough that she understood what had happened between me and George. “So you see,” I said. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“And yours with me,” Sarah said. “I am sorry for what you’ve been through, Charlotte, but a small part of me is glad that it brought you into my life. Without you, I wouldn’t have my son.” She smoothed Jacob’s hair. “And you won’t have to keep my secret for long. Once I go to my father, my heritage will be quite obvious. But he says things have been better for him in the colony than in England. And, of course, in Brazil.”
Charles used to talk of the trade advantage that the plantation owners with slaves enjoyed. But I realized now that he saw it strictly on economic terms with no thought to the human suffering. I hadn’t ever contemplated their lives either, nor had I ever really thought about the freed slaves I saw in England, but if the past month had taught me anything, it was that the world was much bigger than what I saw in my daily life back home.
“Tell me more about your father,” I said.
Sarah smiled, displaying her perfect white teeth. “He worked on a rubber plantation in Brazil, but when he was twenty, his old master brought him to England. New laws banned slavery while they were there, and his master was forced to set him free.”
She told me how he had met her mother, Annie, on a farm when she was just sixteen. The farmers had taken her in as a servant years earlier when she was orphaned. They were happy together for a time, and then the farm was sold. The new owners said they would keep her mother, who was white, but not her dad.
“That’s about the time Mum got sick and died. I was just two. My dad took odd jobs but was always the last hired and the first let go. When I got married, he left to find a new life in the colonies. He thought Jacob would take care of me, and he did, until he was killed in the army. I was so alone. I wrote to my father and he told me to come. I didn’t have enough money for passage, so I signed up with the Emigration Society.” I was deeply touched by her story. She had been through so much more than me.
“And you’re going to see your father again soon and present him with his new grandchild.”
“Yes,” she said. “I just have to get to Barkerville. That’s a town in the goldfields where my father is. He owns a restaurant there. He says there’s lots of ways to make m
oney. I’m not sure yet what I will do, but I know he’ll take care of me and little Jacob.”
How lovely, I thought, to have a father waiting for you in the New World, someone to help guide you and provide loving support. Perhaps my own father would have done that for me had he lived. Since Harriet had told me the truth, I found myself thinking of him differently now.
I stayed with Sarah until her cabinmates returned, then I gave the sleeping Jacob a little kiss on the forehead and said my goodbyes. As I turned to go, I almost walked right into John Crossman, who was in the process of knocking on the door.
“Sorry,” we both said in unison. I tried to step past him, but he turned as well. “How are Sarah and her baby doing?”
“They’re both doing very well,” I said curtly. “Thank you for your interest. She needs her rest, best not to disturb her.” I started down the hallway.
He gently touched my arm to stop me. “Have I done something to offend you, Miss Harding? I haven’t seen you since dinner the other night. I confess, I had been hoping to spend some time getting to know you while we are on this journey together.”
I found the directness of his speech strangely compelling. “It’s not you, Reverend Crossman,” I said, meeting his eye. “It’s the company you keep, or should I say, your choice of friends.”
“Choice of friends? The only friend I’ve spoken of is George Chalmers. Georgie Porgie, we used to call him. He was a mean little boy.” He studied my face. “I suspect he’s a mean adult, despite what Lady Persephone says. He just hides it better. How did he offend you?”
“You’ve not heard gossip about my entanglement with him?”
“I haven’t heard any gossip, and if I had, I’d have ignored it. If George caused you pain or trouble in any way, then he’s no friend of mine.” His warm breath felt like the gentle brush of a feather on my neck. “I like you, Miss Harding. I want to get to know you a little better. Will you let me? Perhaps we could have tea tomorrow. At four o’clock?”
I knew Hari would never approve. Reverend Crossman had not been formally vetted and was not officially courting me. I knew I should not waste my time in a liaison that had no future, but I was drawn to him. It seemed we saw life through a similar lens. I should have demurred—offered a polite but firm refusal. I knew very well not to say yes, but I found myself nodding hesitantly.
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