by Meg Keneally
The current had taken her towards the stern. It had taken others too. A woman floated face down, her skirts billowing slightly with air trapped beneath them as they gradually took on water. A man with a badly grazed face – Reverend Simkin, it looked like – was face up, his eyes open towards the thick clouds that were becoming less visible as dusk began to draw in.
The bodies were surrounded by chunks of wood, and clothes that had burst from a passenger’s trunk. In the middle of them was the convict boy she had seen on deck. His presence told her the hold had been ripped open, and that at least some of the prisoners had not been rail-ironed for the night. The lack of irons had not helped the lad, though. The ocean rolled him over and wrapped him in a stray skirt, the closest he would come to a shroud.
Another large wave was coming now – Sarah could just see its white ridge. She swam frantically against the current, making little headway but enough to keep her from being between the ship and the shore when the wave hit. It curled over her, cutting off the sound of the wind as it span her around, shoved her down, and finally let her go just as the burning in her chest was becoming unbearable.
Again, she wheeled around looking for Maisie. She grasped at a passing piece of wooden plank, hardly noticing when its splintered edge grazed her palm; she only realised she was bleeding at the sting of salt water.
She was dangerously close to the listing ship. Smaller waves, foot soldiers of the monsters taking the vessel apart, slapped her in the face as once more she swam against the current that was sweeping more detritus towards her. She refused to accept that some of the shapeless objects might be human. Might be Maisie.
A sliver of white peeked out from behind a barrel. She began kicking again, and while she didn’t seem able to move forward she could at least hold her position until the barrel and its passenger reached her. Maisie was as pallid as the boy had been, but she had retained enough awareness to cling on to the barrel. As it passed by, Sarah let go of the plank and grabbed the barrel opposite Maisie, who gaped at her – this familiar face that had suddenly appeared from the ocean.
Sarah, in spite of everything, started to laugh, a dry, coughing sound. She reached across the barrel and squeezed Maisie’s arm. ‘We just need to hold on. We will hold on and stay above the water until we’re rescued, yes?’
She did not know whether Maisie was capable of answering, but the young woman was clearly still capable of seeing, as her eyes fixed on a point above Sarah’s shoulder. They were clear of the stern, and another wave lifted the barrel and sent the Serpent rolling towards the cliff again. The impact, this time, was too much for the mizzenmast, which fell, overbalanced across the stern and crashed into the water, creating a wave that swamped the barrel.
Sarah risked taking one hand off the wood to wipe her eyes. When she opened them, she was alone. She croaked out Maisie’s name.
No light was coming from the crippled ship and precious little from the sky, so Sarah did not see the next wave until it was almost upon her, a shelf of black, angry water flinging her and the barrel towards the rocks.
PART TWO
For my ways are strange ways and new ways and old ways,
And deep ways and steep ways and high ways and low;
I’m at home and at ease on a track that I know not,
And restless and lost on a road that I know.
The Wander-Light, Henry Lawson
CHAPTER 17
Sydney, New South Wales, August 1820
For a minute after her eyes opened, Sarah lay there rolling snippets of memory around in her mind, trying to make them adhere to one another, to stick and tangle until they formed a coherent story.
Her hand moved down to her side, searching for a pocket that wasn’t there.
She sat up, breathing heavily. Her head did not want to move thanks to the stiffness in her neck, but she forced herself to look from one side to the other, searching for her clothes.
There was a woman. Thin, grey clad. She was, perhaps, on the other side of her sixtieth birthday, although it was hard to be certain as her hair was tucked into a white cloth cap. Simply standing, watching, as Sarah sought to bring order to her jumbled thoughts. Perhaps she was dead, and the woman was an unadorned angel, or a demon disguised beneath drab veils.
When Sarah gasped and tried to sit up, the woman showed no surprise. ‘There you are,’ she said, as though Sarah had just walked in from the street and started taking off her coat. ‘You’ve been tossing and turning for a little while now. That cot told me you’d be waking up soon – I keep asking for beds that don’t cry out so, but apparently the colony has more urgent plans for its money.’ She was surely a nurse. She walked over, sat on a wooden stool next to the bed, and gave a tight smile. Placing a hand on Sarah’s shoulder, she forced her firmly back onto the pillow.
Sarah winced, sucking in a breath through her teeth.
‘I do not mean to hurt you, silly girl,’ the nurse said. ‘But you look as though you’re about to faint. Might have fallen out of bed, banged your head on the floor. And I think your head has been through quite enough, along with the rest of you.’
Sarah reached up to her face. A gash ran from her temple to below her ear. She winced again.
‘Well of course it’s going to hurt if you go poking at it. It will scar, I’m afraid.’
‘My clothes.’ Sarah had never heard her voice sound like that before – like a chair being scraped across a stone floor. She did not want to own it. ‘My things,’ she said again. ‘Are they . . . ?’
‘At the bottom of the sea, I very much fear. As you nearly were yourself. A lot of care has been taken of you, so make sure it isn’t wasted.’ The nurse walked away so briskly that Sarah thought an expression on her face might have caused offence. But she soon returned with water in an earthenware cup, supporting Sarah’s back while holding it to her mouth. ‘Gently, now. A little sip at a time. Heaven alone knows how much seawater your stomach has in it. We don’t want it to stage a rebellion and force everything out – not over these sheets, which have just been washed.’
Rebellion. Could the nurse know? Had Watkins raved in his sleep?
Sarah tried to sit up again. She needed to find Coombes, see if he would help her. He might know some of the local radicals; he could start her on the path of transforming Sam’s death from a morning’s spectacle to an outrage around which she would rally an army.
First, she needed to get her bearings. The room was long and narrow, as though someone had pinched each end of her childhood cottage and drawn it out. A young woman in the late stages of pregnancy occupied the bed across from her, one of several jutting from each wall so that their feet faced each other, interspersed with tall, thin windows. Another woman was a few beds away, sleeping. There was no one else.
The nurse noticed Sarah’s distress. She sat on the stool and gently took Sarah’s hand. ‘Your shipmates . . .’
As Sarah tried to sit fully upright, she coughed. The nurse put the flat of her palm to Sarah’s shoulder and again pushed her back to the pillows.
‘Maisie,’ Sarah said. ‘My friend, I lost her . . .’
‘She is not here. None of them are, it grieves me to say.’
‘Where are they?’
‘With God.’
As a child, Sarah had been told that God was everywhere. Watching, judging. Ready to catch out wicked little girls. So it took a second or two for her to grasp the nurse’s meaning. When she did, she rejected the notion. ‘They’re not . . . not all of them. They can’t be! If I lived – well, there were many on board stronger than me.’
The nurse took Sarah’s hand once more, this time squeezing it a little too tightly. ‘Their strength availed them nothing, I’m afraid.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
The nurse inhaled sharply and let go of Sarah’s hand. ‘I would suggest looking around you. If there were others, why are they not here?’ She stood and walked over to the bed where the young woman with the dis
tended abdomen lay propped on her elbows, watching the discussion without a hint of apology for her interest. The nurse placed a hand on the swollen stomach. ‘Movement?’
‘Yes, missus. Not half an hour ago.’ The girl spoke like Tully, a Londoner. She had a sharp, foxy little face scattered with blotchy freckles, and a mouth that naturally quirked up on one side as though she was perpetually on the verge of a prank.
‘And you’ll remember to be respectful, when Mrs Thistle comes in. Her reputation is important to her, Nell. She knows your past, but she would not take you if you acted like—’
‘Someone who takes money to pull up my skirts behind taverns? I’ll be good, missus. But I won’t say sorry. Those who disapprove can try to live on fresh air and see how far it gets them.’
The nurse pursed her lips. ‘I do understand. But many don’t.’
‘People think I do it for fun,’ Nell said. ‘Or because I’m mad. Or a natural whore. Their charity doesn’t extend to feeding the poor, but God help the poor if they try to feed themselves. Don’t fret, though. I won’t share any of this with Mrs Thistle.’ She craned her head up between her sheet-covered knees and winked at Sarah.
‘Stop staring at your wardmates, Nell,’ the nurse said. ‘It’s impolite, and Mrs Thistle sets great store by good manners.’ She looked back at Sarah, and left the room.
Sarah glanced at the unconscious woman, who was moving only to emit sodden coughs, and Nell followed Sarah’s gaze. ‘Been here a week, never seen her awake. Surprised she’s still here. Haven’t been near her, don’t want that cough to jump into me.’ She met Sarah’s eyes. ‘Nurse Haddon – the nurse, you see – she’s all right, not the worst of them. And she’s telling the truth, you are the only one left. Famous, you.’
‘Me? I doubt it.’
‘Don’t. Nurse Haddon likes reading me the newspaper, thinks it will make me attend to improving my letters. Some say you’re lucky. Some say God spared you because you’re virtuous. Others say He did it to give hope.’
‘Well, if He wanted to give hope, maybe He could have prevented the wreck in the first place – fiddled with the winds so they blew us to safety, perhaps.’
Nell snorted. ‘Don’t let Nurse Haddon hear you say that. A churchy sort, she is.’
‘And you are not?’
‘No more than you, and I’ve little patience for those who claim to know God’s mind.’
‘You seem to like Nurse Haddon well enough,’ Sarah pointed out.
‘Well, she’s decided my body’s worth saving even if she’s not sure about my soul. She thinks my child deserves to be born. And she’s in with Mrs Thistle.’
‘Who is that?’
Nell was prevented from answering by Nurse Haddon’s heavy-footed entry. She was carrying a newspaper under her arm. ‘You have your letters?’ she asked Sarah.
‘Yes – enough, anyway.’
‘Perhaps not enough for this,’ said Nurse Haddon, sitting on the stool and unfolding the paper. ‘We have collected further facts on the tragic wreck of the Serpent,’ she read. ‘The Black Swan brought to Sydney nineteen bodies on Saturday, besides a considerable quantity of mutilated remains; and yesterday the body of a seaman, with the letters HC over an anchor on the right arm. There were remains also taken from The Gap of two other bodies, supposed to be seamen. People, in vehicles and on horseback, and an immense number on foot, visited the Heads yesterday. Four or five boats proceeded outside the Heads, and went along in front of the cliffs. No living person was seen, and from the close proximity of the boats to the cliffs, it can scarcely be doubted that if any others had escaped from the wreck they would have been observed.
‘A woman, then, remains the only survivor of the catastrophe. She is understood to be receiving care at the infirmary. Those who saw her, who put their own safety at risk to rescue her by means of rope and harness, say she is young. No one recalls seeing a wedding band, although seas so violent would surely be more than capable of claiming such an item for the depths. No one knows how she survived, or why, whether by design of the Almighty or through chance, although she seems to have climbed or been thrown onto a ledge. As the Serpent’s manifest is lost, no one knows so much as her name.’ Nurse Haddon looked up at Sarah. ‘What is your name, my dear?’
‘Remember, missus,’ said Nell, ‘I told you she looked like an Emily.’ Nell nodded enthusiastically towards Sarah, encouraging her to prove her right.
‘Not an Emily, though I’ve always liked the name,’ Sarah said, trying to keep the wobble out of her voice at the thought of her mother.
Sarah could not hear the word Nell muttered, but it earned the pregnant woman a sharp glance from Nurse Haddon.
‘I’m Sarah,’ she said.
Nell bobbed her head from side to side, clearly rolling the name around in her mind. ‘Well, you look enough like a Sarah for me.’
‘Many Sarahs in the world,’ said Nurse Haddon. ‘How do we distinguish you from the rest of them?’
Nell chuckled. ‘Well, missus, she is the only one lying here, for a start.’
Nurse Haddon half lifted herself, turning her body towards Nell. ‘You are getting far too brazen, young woman. The granting of a favour does not entitle you to such familiarity.’
Nell rearranged her features into an appropriately chastened expression but smiled at Sarah when Nurse Haddon glanced away.
‘Miss Flaherty likes to pretend she has no wits,’ the nurse said to Sarah, ‘and is now pretending she does not understand the nature of my question. But you do, I’m sure. I ask, of course, about your surname.’
Sarah opened her mouth to say ‘McCaffrey’, and closed it again. What was being hailed as a miracle could just as easily be denounced as the work of Satan if her past became known. ‘Marin,’ she said. ‘My name is Sarah Marin.’
Mrs Haddon nodded and folded the paper. ‘Well, Miss Marin, I will be honest with you – you can rely on me to be that, if nothing else. I do not know what is to become of you.’
CHAPTER 18
Maisie’s face was the colour of a fish’s belly and covered in bloodless gashes. Her mouth was closed; perhaps someone had done that for her, or perhaps she had gritted her teeth in futile defiance, trying to deny the water entry. If someone had gently lifted her chin, made her lips meet, they had not extended the courtesy to her eyes: the lids were slightly open, a sliver of white under one and an absence under the other.
Her nightdress may have been taken by the sea or by the undertaker, and she was covered to the neck by a canvas sheet. Sarah pinched the fabric, rubbed it between her fingers, and silently began to cry. She did not believe Maisie would have survived had she stayed aboard the Serpent. But if Sarah had held on to her, perhaps the falling mizzenmast would not have swept her from the barrel. Two girls might have woken up in the infirmary.
‘You recognise her, then,’ Truman said. He was a surgeon, the first man she had met in the colony when he had come to examine her shortly after she regained consciousness. He had been three or four times in the past week. Had taken her pulse – which Nurse Haddon seemed perfectly capable of doing without him – and looked into her eyes and mouth, although she had no idea what he expected to see.
Now Sarah nodded, watching a tear that had skidded down her nose splash onto the canvas. ‘Can you get Maisie a softer sheet? She hates rough cloth.’
Truman inhaled sharply. ‘I am sorry, honestly, that this falls to you.’
Sarah looked up along the row of bodies in which Maisie lay. There were around a dozen in this line, one of several stretching out across the floor of the dead house that squatted near the docks of the town’s main quay. The building had never seen such an influx. Some faces were purple, some blue, some white; most were abraded. There were also lumpen masses wholly concealed beneath canvases.
She had not seen James. Was part of him under one of these shrouds, or had he been wholly consumed by the ocean?
Coombes was there, though, still in his shirt and neckerchief. She p
ut her hand on the shoulder she had cried into as her brother choked.
There were other faces she recognised, here and there. A bearded young sailor who had enjoyed leering at her then quickly looking away when she whipped her head around to challenge him. Mrs Simkin, the muscles around her mouth now slack. One of the soldiers who had guarded them from leg-ironed convicts during Sunday service. She could not see any of the convicts; perhaps many of them had been ironed for the night.
She stopped when she saw the blue jacket with the gold buttons, some of which had been picked off by the sea. Watkins was missing an arm. His face had been slashed by rock or splintered wood, and she could see his teeth behind an open cheek.
She paused beside the man who had steered the ship into a cliff. The man who had reduced the bravery of others to a handful of coins. She wanted to thump his chest or slap his open cheek, a punishment he would never feel. Instead she put a hand on his remaining arm and crossed herself.
‘The captain,’ said Truman.
Sarah nodded.
‘I must ask, Miss Marin – what happened? You are the only soul breathing who knows.’
‘But I know little of the ocean,’ she said, ‘or of how men move all that wood to heave people across the sea. There was a storm, and the ship was forced towards the rocks. There was noise, screaming. My friend and I were washed apart, and then . . . well, then there was your infirmary.’
Truman pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. It was a habit of his, she had noticed, one necessitated by his insistence on dressing as though he was in London – though even now, in the final days of winter, it was as warm as an early summer in England, and there was a continual slick of perspiration over his skin. He had clearly taken some trouble with his hair, pasted down by sweat and repeated combing. It did not seem to approve of such tyranny, as it insisted on springing up at random so that he looked like a spectacled hedgehog.