Emily

by Valerie Wood

  Philip turned away. If he assaulted a superior officer, the punishment would be severe. He would lose his position and be stripped of his rank and probably put in irons, but he badly wanted to take the man by the throat and throttle him.

  When the prisoners came up the next morning, one of the older women had died and the other was very sick. The pregnant woman had started in labour. ‘Get her into the sick berth,’ Philip ordered one of the guards, ‘and then bring the sick woman on deck.’ He went to report the death of the woman to Boyle.

  ‘Another death, Mr Linton?’ Boyle said. ‘It’s not going to look very good for your reputation, is it?’

  ‘The reason why will be logged, Mr Boyle,’ Philip replied sharply. ‘She probably died because of lack of air.’

  Boyle sneered. ‘But you don’t know that, do you? You’re not a medical man! Which makes me wonder just why you are here, serving as a surgeon’s mate? The sort of job that any apothecary’s apprentice could do! Blotted your copybook somewhere?’

  Before Philip could reply they were called away by the shrill pipe of the bosun’s whistle. ‘Approaching the Line, sir,’ the bosun’s mate hailed.

  All hands on deck, called the pipes.

  ‘Heave to,’ Boyle commanded. ‘Away aloft. Bring her up, but gently.’

  The helmsmen steadied the course and the seamen and officers met each command instantly. The sails were trimmed and the great ship was brought up with her head to the wind, where she rode gently in the blue green waters, like the swan whose name she had been given.

  Chapter Thirty

  King Neptune came on board. He appeared from the lower deck with seaweed in his hair and beard, a tinsel crown on his head and a wooden trident in his hand. By his side were mermen, their seamen’s clothes draped in weeds and clutching the laughing young midshipmen who had not yet crossed the equator. The convicts gathered around prepared for the fun. A tot of rum was handed round to everyone, seamen and convicts alike.

  ‘Have they taken that fella Johnson out of his irons?’ Meg asked one of the guards. ‘Is he on deck?’

  ‘Aye.’ He nodded and pointed to a fair, bearded man standing at the edge of the crowd. ‘We’ve to keep an eye on him. Boyle’s got him marked down as a troublemaker.’

  ‘Who?’ Emily asked. ‘Is he the one who argued with Boyle?’ She wiped her face with her sleeve. There was no respite from the heat. Many of the women were ignoring the ceremony and were hanging over the bulwarks trying to catch a breeze. Some of them were blistering from the sun.

  Meg nodded, then laughed as Neptune’s mermen lathered a young officer with soap and tar and feathers and handed him to Neptune, who shaved him with a large wooden razor, cut his hair and dunked him into a tub of seawater. Boyle handed Neptune and the officer a tot of rum. ‘Next,’ he cried and gathered up another young midshipman, for whom the same procedure followed, then came other seamen and officers who hadn’t crossed the Line before and again tots of rum were handed over.

  ‘Now the prisoners,’ Boyle called. ‘We’ll have to have volunteers, there isn’t time for all of you. You,’ he pointed to one convict, ‘and you,’ he pointed to John Johnson. ‘Only this time, your Majesty,’ he addressed Neptune, ‘we’ll have it done properly. Over the side!’

  The two convicts looked at each other and so did some of the seamen. ‘The man’s a sadist,’ Emily heard one of the guards say.

  The two men were lathered with tar and soap over their heads and neck, the tar was sticky with the heat and they put their heads down to keep it from their eyes. ‘Fetch the rope,’ Boyle grinned and Neptune objected. ‘It’s not safe, sir.’

  ‘Perfectly safe,’ Boyle said as he hitched the rope over Johnson’s shoulders and around his waist. Johnson started to struggle. ‘Keep still,’ Boyle said, ‘or I might forget to pull you up.’

  He ordered two seamen to stand him on the bulwark and another two to hold the rope and with a great shove he pushed him overboard. Everyone leaned over to watch as Johnson rose up spluttering and cursing. There was some laughter but not much, as he was hauled aboard. ‘And again,’ Boyle called, ‘three times is the norm.’

  Johnson struggled. ‘I’ll kill you, you bastard,’ he shouted.

  ‘Or sometimes it’s six,’ Boyle answered cheerfully.

  ‘Stop it!’ Meg hurled herself at the officer. ‘Stop it! What gives you the right to do this?’

  Boyle held her at arm’s length and a guard rushed over with his rifle at the ready. ‘I have the right to do what ever I want with you scum,’ he snarled. ‘Bring him aboard,’ he ordered the seamen who were holding Johnson. ‘We’ll have the little lady instead.’

  Meg lashed out and the women screamed and the men shouted, but the guards had their orders and Meg was held with her arms behind her back and marched towards Neptune, who though almost drunk, was sobering very quickly. ‘I don’t usually perform on the women, sir.’

  ‘Well if you won’t, I will.’ Boyle rolled up his coat sleeves and pulled Meg roughly towards him and the tub of tar.

  Emily stood horrified as she watched Meg’s hair and face being tarred and then feathered with seagull feathers, but she swore and lashed out with hands and feet as Boyle struggled to hold her. ‘No,’ Emily shouted and the other convicts joined in the cry. ‘Stop, stop,’ and she hurled herself towards Boyle, beating him with her fists.

  ‘Stop!’ Johnson broke free from the seamen and he too tore towards Boyle with his fists flying.

  Philip had watched the ceremony of the midshipmen and then hurried back to the sick berth. The pregnant woman was in a lot of pain and he didn’t know what to do. He had never witnessed childbirth, he didn’t know anything about it and wasn’t keen to find out. He only knew that the woman was frail and sick and he questioned her as to when she might expect the child. ‘I was six months’ gone when I came on board, sir,’ she said. ‘So it could be any time. It’s my third. I know what happens.’

  ‘I’m glad you do’, he said, ‘because I don’t. Will you be all right whilst I go and fetch the surgeon?’

  He hurried away and prayed that Clavell was sober and heard the shouts coming from the upper deck. I’m missing all the fun, he thought, but perhaps it’s just as well as I haven’t crossed the Line.

  He managed to rouse Clavell and poured him a glass of water, which he spat out. ‘Don’t ever give me that again, Mr Linton,’ he objected. ‘Pour me a tot of rum and I’ll be as right as ninepence.’

  He drank it straight down and stood up. ‘There, what did I tell you?’ He looked around with bleary eyes. ‘Are we at anchor or am I less drunk than I thought I was?’

  ‘We’re crossing the Line, sir. The ceremony has started.’

  ‘Hmph, well I’ve seen that nonsense often enough without wanting to see it again. Come on, take me to the mother to be.’

  He pronounced her all right for the next few hours and said that she could have one of the other women convicts to attend her. ‘One who knows about these things,’ he said briskly. ‘I don’t want anybody fainting in my sick berth. And that goes for you as well, Mr Linton. You’d better keep well out of the way.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to,’ Philip began, when a midshipman dashed into the sick berth without knocking.

  Clavell looked annoyed, but the young officer apologized. ‘I believe, sir, that it’s naval regulations that the surgeon should witness a lashing?’ His face was red and sweaty and he looked nervous. ‘I hope I’m doing right, sir?’

  ‘A lashing? Who’s being lashed and why?’

  ‘One of the convicts, sir, for assaulting Mr Boyle, and I think maybe one of the women.’

  ‘What?’ Clavell’s face turned purple. ‘Women are not to be lashed! Whose order is this?’

  The officer licked his lips. ‘Mr Boyle’s, sir.’

  ‘Is it, by God?’ Clavell snatched his coat from the chair. ‘We’ll see about that.’

  When they reached the upper deck, Johnson was already tied to a grating by the wrists
with his arms above his head and his ankles ironed. Philip was appalled to see Meg fastened up also and mouthing abuse at Boyle, and Emily being held by two guards. He stepped forward, but Clavell stopped him. ‘This is my business, Mr Linton. Leave it to me.’

  He confronted Boyle. ‘I’m here to attend the lashing. What is the man’s punishment?’

  ‘Twenty lashes.’ Boyle’s voice was surly. ‘Less than the regulation permits.’

  ‘Why is the woman tied? She is not to be lashed?’

  ‘Assault and insubordination! She’s to be given five strokes.’

  ‘I think not, Mr Boyle,’ said Clavell. ‘The flogging of women ceased some time ago.’

  ‘The charge is serious. These women have to be shown that they cannot behave as they wish.’ He glared at Clavell. ‘I am the most senior officer here whilst the captain is sick and I say the woman is to be flogged. You may watch to ensure that she does not suffer unduly.’

  As Philip listened, he knew that Boyle was within his rights as the ship’s master. He could decide on the punishment for an offence. Clavell could only supervise the lashing to ensure that the prisoners did not die of their injuries.

  The lash was held by the bosun and the prisoners were ordered into a semi-circle in order to watch. ‘Leave the woman alone,’ Johnson shouted. ‘I’ll tek her lashes.’

  ‘How very noble.’ Boyle grinned. ‘Begin!’

  The lash spat and then spat again until ten strokes had been given. ‘Stop,’ Boyle shouted. ‘Mr Clavell, perhaps you would like to examine the prisoner?’

  Clavell stepped forward. Ten weals criss-crossed Johnson’s back but the skin hadn’t broken. He stepped back and nodded for the punishment to continue, but Boyle put up his hand and called for a bucket of sea water. He took it from the seaman and threw it over Johnson. They heard him gasp as the salt licked his back and saw his hands clench.

  ‘Swine!’ Meg shouted. ‘You’re enjoying this.’

  Boyle said nothing, but indicated that the flogging should continue. Five more lashings and the convict’s fair skin started to bleed. Clavell stepped forward to examine the wounds. ‘I think that’s enough, Mr Boyle.’

  ‘Five more,’ Boyle ordered. ‘Is he a woman that he can’t take more?’ Again he ordered a bucket of sea water to be thrown over Johnson’s back and they saw him flinch, though he made not a sound. ‘Continue.’

  The bosun hesitated, but had been given his orders; to disobey was an offence. He took a step backwards and launched the whistling cat for the final five, which opened up the wounds into a bloody, sticky mass.

  ‘Put him below and iron him,’ Boyle began, when there was a movement from the companionway and Captain Martin appeared. His face was sallow and his eyes heavy, but he greeted Lieutenant Boyle and the other officers and asked, ‘Have I missed the ceremony? Has Neptune departed?’ then, glancing around the deck, said sharply, ‘What’s this? A flogging? On my ship!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Boyle. ‘One of the convicts. He became abusive after taking part in the ceremony.’

  ‘Indeed? Bring him to me,’ the captain ordered and Johnson was pushed towards him. ‘Do you not agree with tradition?’ he asked him. ‘Crossing the Line is an age-old ceremony.’

  ‘Not when it means half-drowning a man, sir. But that isn’t why ’officer had me lashed. He had me lashed because I objected to him giving ’same treatment to one of the women.’

  ‘I was attacked by the prisoner, sir,’ Boyle began, but was interrupted by the captain.

  ‘Mr Linton, take the prisoner and dress his wounds, then put him in the cramping box to reflect on his misdoings. You must realize’, he addressed Johnson, ‘that you can’t take the law into your own hands. That is why you are here on this ship and not enjoying the comforts of your hearth and family.’

  Johnson opened his mouth to reply, but was marched away with Philip following and anxiously looking over his shoulder at Emily, who was still being held by the seamen.

  The captain conferred quietly with Boyle and Clavell to ascertain what had happened and to ensure that Boyle didn’t lose face before the prisoners. ‘I’ll see you in my cabin, Mr Boyle,’ he said, ‘and in the meantime, put the woman below and keep her fettered for the rest of the day. As for the other woman,’ he looked towards Emily, ‘put her in the cramping box for a couple of hours, she’ll not cause any trouble after being in there.’

  Clavell started to object that the heat would be too much, it was so hot that the deck planking was scorching.

  ‘An hour, then,’ the captain conceded. ‘That should teach her not to interfere.’

  Two cramping boxes for the punishment of the prisoners stood side by side on the upper deck and an immense heat almost knocked Emily over as the door was opened and she was pushed inside. There was no room to sit or crouch but only to stand and after ten minutes she felt as if she was being baked alive. ‘I need water,’ she called. ‘Please! Fetch me some water!’

  ‘You can’t have water,’ a voice shouted back, ‘but if you’re not quiet you’ll get a bucket of sea water over you.’

  She hammered on the door. ‘I’ll die,’ she shrieked. ‘I must have water.’

  ‘Give her water, then,’ she heard a voice say and a moment later a hatch in the roof opened and a bucket of sea water was thrown in, drenching her through and making her gasp and although for a moment she was refreshed by its coldness, the salt dried instantly on her skin and her clothes, making her itch and scratch. She heard voices again and braced herself for another bucket of water to be thrown in, but it was the guards bringing Johnson into the other cramping box.

  She peered through the slats. ‘Are you all right?’ she whispered. ‘Is your back very painful?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘More than it would have been if that bastard Boyle hadn’t thrown sea watter at me.’

  ‘You were very brave,’ she said softly. ‘I would have hated to have been thrown into ’sea.’

  ‘I was terrified,’ he admitted. ‘I’m not used to watter. I’m a countryman, used to ’earth beneath my feet.’

  She listened. Meg was right. He did sound like a northern man. ‘Where are you from?’ She kept her voice down so that the guards didn’t hear.

  There was a hesitation and she peered again through the slats and saw a pair of eyes looking back at her. ‘’North of England.’ He was brief. ‘Nowhere tha would know.’

  ‘I might,’ she said. ‘I’m from ’north too. Did you come from York county gaol?’

  Again there was a hesitation. ‘No. I’ve travelled a bit. I got caught pinching stuff in London.’

  ‘Oh!’ There seemed nothing more to say and it was too hot for the effort of conversation.

  ‘Is tha feeling all right?’ he asked after a long silence.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I feel ill. My legs are giving way and I’m so thirsty.’

  ‘Not so long to go now,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a bit of a breeze now that we’re under way again. Bear up if tha can.’

  A tear trickled down her cheek and into her mouth; she licked her lips and tasted the salt. The sound of his northern accent brought back so many memories. Of her father and mother, her brother Joe and of Sam, who had been like a brother to her.

  ‘Is tha from York, then? Is tha a Yorkshire lass?’

  ‘Yes,’ she wept as she answered, ‘I am. But I’m not from York, I’d never been there before until I was sent from Hull to go to ’county court.’

  ‘Tha’s from Hull?’ There was a note of surprise in his voice. ‘I know it!’

  ‘Do you?’ She stopped her crying. ‘No, I’m not from Hull. I worked there, as a servant,’ she added. ‘I’m from a place called Holderness. You wouldn’t know it, even folk in Hull don’t know where it is. It’s very isolated, there are great tracts of marshy land and hummocky plain which stretch right towards ’sea. I used to live near ’River Humber,’ she said huskily, finding it difficult to speak because of her dry throat. ‘I used to watch the big ships
go downriver towards Spurn and wished I could go on one. I never dreamt that one day I would and sail to the other side of ’world.’

  ‘I know it,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I know Holderness! That’s where I’m from – but no-one here knows it, I never telled ’em.’

  ‘Oh!’ she breathed, amazed to think that out here in the middle of the ocean could be an alliance with home.

  ‘What’s thy name?’ he asked. ‘Or did tha change it like I did?’

  ‘Emily,’ she said and felt shame that she had sullied her family name by her misdeeds. ‘Emily Hawkins.’

  There was silence from his box and she could hear the sound of running feet out on deck, the hails and cries of the helmsman and the boys up on the yards. ‘White squall approaching, sir,’ and heard also the order to get the prisoners below. The great ship plunged and quivered, the sails and masts creaked and groaned as the Flying Swan and her seamen battled with the sudden storm and Emily would have fallen if she hadn’t been so confined within the box.

  ‘Emily!’ Johnson called huskily.

  ‘Yes?’ she answered. ‘What?’

  ‘No, I mean – that’s thy name? Emily Hawkins?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was too exhausted to speak. The heat was blistering and she felt as if she was being battered to pieces as the ship dipped and plunged between mountainous troughs. Was the hour almost up? Was the ship going to sink? She could see through the slats that the deck was awash with water.

  ‘Em!’ His voice sounded strained and tearful. ‘Not little Em? Not our Emily who went to live wi’ Granny Edwards?’

  She didn’t answer, but put her face close to the slats to see him staring back at her. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘That’s me!’

  ‘Then doesn’t tha know me, Em? Doesn’t tha know thine own brother Joe?’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It appeared as if they had been forgotten in the cramping box and so brother and sister rediscovered each other as they were buffeted from side to side and the sea water washed over their feet. Emily told of how she had come to be convicted and Joe raged as she revealed her ordeal at the hands of Hugo Purnell. ‘I swear on the soul of our ma, if I ever could lay my hands on him I’d kill him, Em.’