by Valerie Wood
So we’re off to Australia
in a tall ship so grand
For England don’t want us
in her fair pleasant land.’
His face worked as if in emotion and he wiped his nose on his sleeve. Meg fell silent. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I didn’t mean owt.’
The other men took up the words and started to sing too, loudly and boisterously as if to hide their feelings, though there were some who couldn’t sing for weeping.
‘First time I’ve ever said sorry to a fella in my life.’ Meg climbed back onto the bunk next to Emily. ‘It’s you, Em.’ She gave a lopsided grin, but her voice was choked. ‘You’re mekking me soft.’
‘They’re maybe not all wicked,’ Emily said quietly. ‘And they’ll all be leaving somebody behind. A mother, wife or children maybe.’
‘Aye.’ Meg lay down on the bunk again. ‘That chap yonder. He didn’t sound as if he came from these parts, London I mean. No, he sounded more like from our way.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘I’ve probably met him at some time. There’s few that I haven’t.’
For two days they were tossed and thrown about as the ship ran into deep water. Many of the women were sick and the stench became unbearable. Meg and some of the other matrons hammered on the door and pleaded with the sentry to open the door or hatches to let in some air, but their request was refused. Finally on the third day, when most lay in a sick stupor, the hatches rattled and were drawn to one side and a dim light came through the bars from the deck above. The door opened and an officer and two guards appeared.
‘Fifty women, ten at a time, can come up,’ said the officer. ‘I want no trouble. If you give any you’ll come straight down again and be given only bread and water for a week.’
‘Well, we wouldn’t want to miss out on our little luxuries, now would we?’ Meg began, but was hushed by Emily and the other women as they queued to take their turn to go up on deck. But it took so long. As each woman reached the upper deck she was given a number which corresponded with her name on a list, and this number was pinned to her clothing. They were allowed up on deck for half an hour and then brought below again to give the others a turn.
Emily and Meg were in the last fifty to get their numbers and go on to the quarterdeck and by now the evening dusk was gathering. The sky was suffused with red and yellow and the sea reflected the colours, and it seemed as if the ocean was on fire. There was not a sign of land, not a shadow to show where they had come from; they were completely surrounded by water.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ Emily whispered, ‘but so vast.’ She stared around her at the mighty wastes of sea and then up into the sky. ‘We are like nothing out here.’ She gazed up at the masts and the rigging and the great white sails billowing and felt the power of the ship beneath her. ‘The Flying Swan,’ she murmured, ‘she’s well named.’
‘You down there,’ a voice called out from the forecastle, ‘keep moving. You’ve all been complaining of being cramped below, so start walking! Come on, jump to it. Round and round. Round and round!’
‘Do you think he’s ever tried walking with irons on?’ Meg said fiercely. ‘Son of a bitch, standing there giving orders!’
‘Hush! Maybe they’ll let us take them off in a day or two when they think they can trust us.’ Emily was fearful of trouble. ‘At least we’re up on deck and can breathe at last.’
At sunrise the next morning the door was opened and they were allowed on deck, two hundred women and one hundred men, but they were carefully segregated and all kept on their irons, the women in their ankle bracelets and the men fettered in heavy ankle irons which had a chain attached to an iron band circling their waists, allowing them only to shuffle. They had to bring up their bedding to air and then stow into lockers, then a working party was organized and sent down to scrape and clean and disinfect their quarters.
The old woman who shared their bunk had to be helped up the companionway, her legs were so stiff she could barely put one foot in front of the other. ‘Leave me,’ she kept repeating, ‘I only want to die.’
But the other women forced her on, one on each side of her and one behind until they got her on deck, where she lay down as if the effort had been too much for her.
‘She needs a doctor,’ Emily said and turned to a seaman passing by. ‘Can you get a doctor?’ But he ignored her as if she wasn’t there and walked on.
Though they were glad to be out of the dark interior, it was cold on deck, the wind was sharp and cut through them like a knife. A group of midshipmen came with a pile of clothing for them. ‘Here you are, sort it out between yourselves. Find something to fit and change when you get below. Then leave your own clothes in a pile to be removed later.’
Emily looked with dismay at the heap of rough clothing. There were skirts and shirts and jackets, but all made from coarse material, serge or hemp, not wool as she was wearing now. Worsted stockings and shoes were piled into a heap and there were shawls too, grey and thin and some of the women who were without warm clothing fell on to them eagerly, snatching them from each other’s hands.
Buckets of sea water were hauled over the side of the ship and the women rinsed their hands and faces, trying to rid themselves of the stench which pervaded them all. ‘I’m full o’ fleas,’ Meg complained, scratching herself. ‘I’ve never had as many as this in my life.’
‘The sea water will get rid of them,’ Emily said hopefully as she swilled herself, then shrieked in horror as she saw her own skirt was crawling with the creatures. She tore off her skirt, not minding that she was in public and grabbed a twill one from the pile which was left. It was scratchy but clean and she plunged her own skirt into a bucket of sea water which was standing near.
The day passed slowly and monotonously, broken only by the serving of breakfast and dinner rations which the matrons and mess captains collected and shared out amongst their group. The rest of the time they either sat or shuffled around the narrow deck and waited for the day to end.
Emily and Meg collected clothing for the old woman and helped her down below again. The fresh air had done nothing to alleviate her discomfort and she refused her food when it came at suppertime, but lay on the bunk and closed her eyes. They shared out her food between the five of them, the dishes were cleared and washed in a bucket of sea water and put away, and though it was not yet night, the hatches were closed and the door banged shut.
‘The end of a perfect day,’ Meg muttered. ‘’Night, Em.’
‘Goodnight, Meg.’ Emily lay down beside her. The smoke from the fumigation still lingered and invaded her nostrils and stung her eyes. She was cold, the sea air had been exhilarating but biting. Her cloak had been taken from her and she felt she would never be warm again. They say it’s warm in Australia, she pondered. How long before we are there? Three months, some have said. Others say six. She sighed. It will seem like a lifetime.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Philip had peered through the barricade into the women’s prison. ‘They need air,’ he’d said to Lieutenant Boyle. ‘The rules are that they must have adequate ventilation.’
‘They’ll get it when we’re under sail, not before.’ Lieutenant Boyle was a red-faced, portly man only a few years older than Philip, but his rise had been swift. He had connections. He was also aggressive and domineering and few people stood in his way. If they did, he trampled firmly on them until they moved. He now had the position of first mate, second in command under Captain Martin. ‘If I had my way,’ he muttered as he turned away, ‘they’d stay below until we reach Sydney.’
Philip had looked searchingly amongst the women, though it was difficult to see their faces in the gloomy interior. I can’t see her! Oh, God. What if she isn’t here! But she has to be, I saw her name on the list.
He turned away and tried to attend to his duties. The surgeon had been given a small ward for the sick. Enough room only for two bunks and a long table for surgery. Philip’s task now was to awaken the surgeon and try to make him sober. H
e shook him. ‘Sir, the prisoners need attention. Their conditions are appalling.’
Clavell opened his eyes. ‘Well, of course they are! What do you expect? They’re convicts! They don’t get feather beds. Wake me up when we’re under sail.’ He closed one eye and peered up at Philip with the other. ‘Then we’ll sort it out.’
Clavell was stone-cold sober three days later and stood on deck with Philip and Lieutenant Boyle observing the prisoners. ‘The women’s shackles can come off. They won’t be any trouble,’ he stated. ‘But keep the men in theirs for a bit longer.’
Lieutenant Boyle objected. ‘They’re more docile when they’re ironed. They’ll torment the men if they’re free.’
Clavell glared at him. ‘The prisoners are my responsibility, Mr Boyle. They are women with women’s functions. Take the irons off!’
A great cheer went up when the first irons were unfastened and a cry of ‘God bless you, sir,’ wafted towards them. ‘You see, Mr Boyle,’ Clavell smiled, ‘a little good will goes a long way! Are they getting their daily dose of lime juice and their full ration of meat?’
Boyle in a surly manner conceded that they were getting what they were entitled to. ‘No more and no less.’
Clavell nodded. ‘Make sure the accommodation is swabbed and disinfected every day, that’s the way to keep disease down. Now, Mr Linton, do we have any sick?’
‘None has been reported, sir.’ Philip was still searching the deck for a sign of Emily.
‘Good. We can start with a clean slate.’
‘Looking for somebody, Mr Linton?’ Boyle murmured after Clavell had gone below. ‘Fancy a little romp? There are one or two that I wouldn’t mind trying out. There’s a dark-haired filly and a blonde one. Look over there to the right. When they’re cleaned up a bit they might be safe to use.’
Philip turned and stared at him. ‘It’s against captain’s orders,’ he said quietly.
‘Phew!’ Boyle blew a derogatory laugh. ‘Think he doesn’t know when it goes on? Everybody has one – or two. It helps to pass the time on this damned run.’ He stared down towards the quarterdeck. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘The blonde one. That’s the one for me.’
Philip glanced towards where Boyle was looking and drew in a sharp breath. It was Emily! She had swilled her face in a bucket of water and had tossed her hair back so that it was blowing in the wind. Then she lifted her arms behind her neck and coiled the thick hair into a bun.
‘What do you think, Mr Linton?’ Boyle smiled thinly. ‘Shall we fight for her?’
Philip wanted to punch him on his nose, but held his temper. ‘I think we should find out a little more about her first,’ he said. ‘You can’t be too careful, Mr Boyle. You wouldn’t want to catch anything nasty to take home to your wife, would you?’
Boyle glared at him. ‘I’m always careful. Besides, I won’t be home for another twelve months. What’s a man supposed to do?’
Philip turned away. ‘Excuse me, Mr Boyle. I have duties to attend to.’ He had to think fast. He had to get to Emily before Boyle did.
‘Meg,’ Emily whispered early one morning, ‘Meg, I think the old woman is dead!’ She had leaned across to check on her several times during the night. The ship had tossed and rolled and many of the women had cried out, but the old woman had made no sound, but just lay there unmoving.
‘Oh, damn,’ Meg muttered. ‘Now we’ll lose her rations! Are you sure?’ She turned to her silent neighbour and put her fingers to her neck, then bent her head and put it against the woman’s chest. ‘I can’t hear anything. I think you’re right. What’ll we do?’
‘We’ll have to call ’sentry.’ Emily made to slip off the bunk to the floor, but Meg stayed her.
‘Wait a minute,’ she whispered and woke the other women who shared the bunk and beckoned them to move closer. ‘Listen. We don’t have enough to eat, do we?’
The others shook their heads.
‘And now we’re going to lose ’old woman’s rations which we’ve been sharing for ’last few days.’ She glanced around to make sure that no-one else was listening. ‘Well, I propose that we leave her where she is for another couple o’ days, till, you know, till we’ve got to move her.’
‘What are you saying?’ Emily burst out in a hoarse whisper. ‘You mean leave her next to us? But she’s dead!’
‘Shh! But nobody knows she’s dead,’ Meg insisted. ‘Nobody even knows she’s here. We don’t even know ’poor old lass’s name.’
They all stared down at the old woman’s body, still clad in her iron anklets, for she hadn’t been able to get to the upper deck again to have them removed.
‘But, won’t she –?’ One of the other women wrinkled her nose. ‘You know –!’
Meg shook her head. ‘No! Not for a bit anyway. We could get today’s food and maybe tomorrow morning’s anyway. We might have to have her moved after that.’
Emily put her head in her hands. What had they come to when they stole from the dead? Yet she was hungry. There wasn’t enough food to satisfy them, the rations were small and inadequate.
‘Are we agreed then?’ Meg looked at them all for confirmation. ‘I’ll be ’one to get ’stick anyway if we get found out, seeing as I’m ’one who goes to collect ’food.’
So it was agreed, though reluctantly, and Meg went to fetch the rations for six in the usual way. But Emily found she had lost her appetite, she couldn’t eat with the old woman lying there and she certainly couldn’t sleep, though Meg seemed to have no bother at all and snored in her usual manner as she lay next to the old woman’s corpse.
The next morning they agreed that she would have to be moved. There was no air and the stench of two hundred females and one hundred males trapped below decks was strong enough, without the added odour of a dead one.
‘I’ll fetch breakfast first,’ Meg decided. ‘Then I’ll call ’guard.’
* * *
‘Good God!’ Mr Clavell held his handkerchief to his nose. ‘Where has she been?’
Philip put his hand over his mouth. ‘Down below, sir. The guard said the women swore they hadn’t realized she was dead!’
Clavell shook his head. ‘They’ve been sharing her food rations, that’s why she hasn’t been brought up. Prepare her for burial, Mr Linton. Let’s get the poor soul to her rest.’
The women watched as the shroud slid down the platform to be swallowed up by the waters. No ceremony, but a simple prayer to send her on to the next journey. ‘We know nothing about her,’ Emily said quietly. ‘Not her name or if she had a family or why she was being transported. It’s not right,’ she protested. ‘It was a life, God given.’
Meg nodded. ‘And God taken away, Em. Come on.’ She took her arm. ‘Let’s take a stroll.’ The weather had become warmer as they sailed towards the Canaries, though the Atlantic breezes were strong and blustery. They perambulated around the deck, then stood to watch the young boys clambering up on the yards, adjusting the rigging. The seamen were more friendly than the soldiers and some of them stopped briefly to exchange banter, but always moved off swiftly when an officer appeared. ‘There’s a couple of officers watching you, Em,’ Meg remarked casually. ‘Better watch out.’
Emily glanced around. ‘Who? You’re imagining things!’
‘No, I’m not,’ she insisted. ‘One’s that swine who told us to keep moving when we first came up on deck, you remember? I haven’t seen ’other one afore.’
Emily screwed her eyes up against the brightness. She saw two officers by the bow, but couldn’t see their faces. She gave a grim laugh. ‘We’re not strolling at ’Scarborough Spa, Meg! We’re convicts on a ship bound for Australia. They’re probably worrying that we’re planning a mutiny!’
‘Wish we could,’ Meg muttered. ‘I’d be first to volunteer.’
As the days progressed, though the time lay heavy and monotonous, a routine of sorts came into being. The women took turns with the men at swabbing and stoning the decks and they were able to wash their clothes, al
though the stench of disinfectant never left them. Sometimes some of the women disappeared for a few hours, reappearing later looking pleased with themselves and remarkably not as hungry as they had been. Meg knew where they had been, though she doubted if Emily had even noticed. If I could get fixed up with somebody we could both eat, she thought. Me and Em. She had seen money changing hands when the food was brought round and some ate better than others. It wouldn’t matter to me as long as they paid up. But she knew that she wouldn’t attract anyone but the lowest seaman, and she doubted that they had money to spare.
Then one night after they had been locked up for several hours the door opened and the sentry called out, ‘Emily Hawkins! Come for’ard.’
Meg looked towards the door and then down at Emily, who was sleeping. She got down from the bunk and made her way to the sentry. ‘Who wants her?’
‘One of the officers; sent for her specially.’
‘Which officer?’ Meg persisted.
‘What’s it to do with you?’ He opened his mouth to call again, but she forestalled him.
‘It’s not that pig that’s allus lording it over everybody? ’One with a mouth like a sewer?’
‘No, not him,’ he grinned. ‘It’s surgeon’s mate.’
‘Surgeon’s mate?’ He might do, she pondered. ‘All right, tek me to him.’
‘You? You’re the one he sent for?’
She nodded. ‘Aye. Emily Hawkins. That’s me.’
‘By, he must be desperate,’ he said disparagingly as he let her out and locked the door behind them. ‘No offence, like, but I’d have thought he’d have had better taste.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, unoffended. ‘If I can do owt for you sometime, let me know.’
Philip took three paces forward and three back, and again three forward and three back, that was as far as he could stride in his cabin, and he was nervous. What would she say when she saw him? Would she be overcome with shame or joy? Would she rail at him for finding her in such a base condition? Would she ask why he was here and would he tell her? He tried out different stories in his head. He would pretend that it was mere coincidence and that he had been so surprised when he had discovered her on deck. Or that he had been checking the list of names after the old woman had died and couldn’t believe it when he had seen her name on the list.