by Hope Adams
“Is he sad? He must be.”
“I try to be cheerful for him and explain that she has to sleep a great deal if she’s to be well again,” said Joan. “Sometimes he seems to understand, but at others he’s still crying when he leaves his mother. It’s dreadful. Horrible.”
“He’s bearing up,” Emily said. “I haven’t made him come to his lessons with the others but he seems to want to be with them. It cheers him, I suppose, to see them playing. And I try to be as kind to him as I can. It won’t help him to brood over his mother.”
“What did they say to you, Tabitha?” Ruth asked.
“Same as they did to Marion. Wanted to know what went on. What I saw. What I heard. And what Hattie said to us. So I told them.”
Phyllis shivered. “It gives me the creeps, really.” She looked around the circle. “There’s seven of us being questioned. Still, my belief is it could be one of the crew but they reckon one of us’s done it and we don’t know which it is.” Her gaze fell on Sarah, Emily, Joan, Marion and Tabitha.
“Who’s innocent here? Eh?” Tabitha bared her teeth and glowered at Phyllis. “We’re on a transport ship. There’s not a single one of us who’s blameless. Go on, deny it! We’ll wait and see what they decide in their wisdom, those men.”
“And Miss Hayter,” said Marion. “She’s there, too.”
“No more use than a fart in a thunderstorm, her being there. That’s for show. Those men’ll judge us in the end.”
“Didn’t she speak?” Susan asked. “Did she not say anything?”
“This and that. But it’s mostly the men. Always is. Fat lot of good she’ll do in that company.”
“What if,” said Beth, “they can’t find out who did it by the time we land? What then?”
“They’ll hand the seven of us over to them in authority and let them deal with us.”
“But what if Hattie dies?” Beth asked.
“No need to look so bloody eager!” Izzy shouted. “She in’t dead yet. You look as if you’re longing for that, you brainless whore.”
Beth kicked Izzy in the shins. “I’m not! I’m not!” she said, looking around for confirmation. “Someone’ll be in for the long drop if she does.” She shivered.
“Stop fighting, both of you,” Ruth muttered, through gritted teeth. “Miss Hayter’s over there, talking to the gentlemen. She’ll be here soon.”
Beth wiped her eyes and, with trembling hands, picked up her needle to thread it. The others were quiet, and the ship moved silently through the water in what little wind there was.
27
NOW
8 July 1841
Ninety-four days at sea
KEZIA
Kezia went to the rail of the ship and stared toward the horizon. After a stormy night, the sun shone weakly from behind thin clouds. The sea spread away to what might have been a coastline, but that, Kezia knew, was an illusion. The ocean went on and on and she was uncomfortable when she considered how far away the Rajah was from any land.
“Good morning,” said a voice, and Kezia turned to see the captain striding along the deck toward her, with the Reverend Mr. Davies and Mr. Donovan. Charles was smiling as he stopped to talk to her, and she was surprised by how much it pleased her to see him. All thoughts of how lonely the Rajah was on the vast ocean left her. The captain’s solid presence made her feel safe.
“Good morning,” she answered.
“Please walk with us,” Charles said, and they continued to walk together. Mr. Donovan was speaking, and the men seemed intent on continuing the deliberations of the inquiry. The clergyman in particular seemed eager to contradict almost everything Kezia had told them.
He hates what I’m doing with the women, she thought. And because of that, he has a very low opinion of me. If he knew that I’d like to run away from him and not have to talk to him, he would think even worse of me. She was determined to speak up for herself and for her women at every opportunity.
“I think,” said Mr. Davies, “that Miss Hayter has a rosy vision of what these women are capable of. It is a question not of their characters but of passions brought on by their present circumstances. Don’t you see?” He turned to Kezia, for, clearly, she needed to understand his version of the truth.
The four stopped walking and leaned against the rail, keeping their voices down, for the women were busy working not far away. Mr. Davies continued: “Kept in convict quarters, the women’s minds may have been swayed and altered by being so far from home. Or perhaps they may have come into possession of strong spirits.”
“You are not kept in convict quarters, sir,” said Kezia, “but you are still far from home and your sherry every evening is strong drink, is it not? Is your character altered?”
Mr. Donovan laughed. “She’s got you there, Davies,” he said. “And I must add that I’ve treated a fair few women for one thing and another throughout the voyage. I still maintain that not one of them seems dangerous.”
“Very well, then,” said the clergyman, stiffly. “I can see my words are falling on deaf ears. Good day to you all.” He strode away toward his cabin and Mr. Donovan followed him, pleading that he must work.
“Please, may we walk again, Charles?” she said. “There’s something I want to say away from my women. I don’t want them to overhear us.” Or see us, she added to herself. They would notice my anger.
“Very well,” said Charles. Then: “Is something wrong?”
“I am very . . . I’m very perturbed by your attitude to me in the inquiry.”
Charles stopped abruptly and Kezia turned to him as they stood together, out of sight of the women.
“My attitude to you is of the utmost respect.” He moved a little toward her, and seemed about to say more when Kezia interrupted him.
“And yet,” she said, “you pay less heed to my advice and opinion than you do to those of the men.”
“I assure you, my dear, I do not!” His face was a picture of indignation.
“That is how it often appears to me. All of you dismiss my knowledge of the women’s characters and behavior as though it were of little account.”
“I’m sorry. In future I will ensure that your views are given as much weight as anyone else’s.”
“Thank you,” Kezia said. “I must go to my women now.” She turned and walked quickly away. She should have felt grateful for what he had said, and perhaps it was wrong of her to judge him harshly for not addressing her main irritation. She should have made a point of mentioning it directly. Why, she’d thought of saying to him, do you put up with that man being so dismissive of me? But she was glad she hadn’t. She didn’t need others to speak for her. She was perfectly capable of telling Mr. Davies her opinion without the captain’s help, and she was determined to do so when the time was right. He would never admit that he was wrong, but perhaps he would cease to cleave so fervently to the belief that he was always right.
28
THEN
Cotton piece: white stripes on a brown background, each stripe patterned with leaves in red and blue, alternating
April 1841
CLARA
It wasn’t only our belongings that were tossed around in the storm, trodden underfoot and vomited on. We are feeling shaken, too. It’s hard on this ship to find anywhere to be private, away from prying eyes, but now that every corner’s being sluiced down, now that piles of bedding have been taken up to the deck to be brought down again when they’re dry, it’s even harder.
Small groups of women are talking as they work. Miss Hayter’s among them, coming and going, offering encouragement to everyone, putting things to rights. Women who’d be sewing on an ordinary day are busy down here, but not everyone’s working. Izzy Croft’s speaking to Becky Finch, and Rose Manners hovers nearby. I can’t hear what she’s saying but Becky isn’t happy. She’s sitting on a bench with her bundle beside her, th
e one we were each given when we came on board the Rajah. Izzy’s speaking urgently, eagerly, waving her hands about. Becky’s not moving. Not talking, just staring at the floor. Rose comes closer and puts her hand on Izzy’s shoulder. She leans forward, and speaks over Izzy’s head. Some people have voices that pierce the air and carry more than others. Rose’s voice is like that. She’s almost spitting into Becky’s face and I hear what she says. “She’s told you. What’s she just said? She doesn’t love you no more. Wash your fucking ears out.”
She and Izzy go off together, arm in arm, and join a gaggle on the other side of the convict quarters. Becky doesn’t move for a long time. Then she reaches into her bundle and finds the scissors. She sits with them on her lap for a moment, then opens them as if to cut away a stray thread. I watch as she pushes the filthy cuff of her dress a little way up her arm and, with one of the scissor blades, scores a line in the flesh above her wrist. Not exactly a cut, but enough to scratch the skin and leave a thin line of blood. Has anyone else noticed?
I don’t want to call attention to myself but what if Becky doesn’t stop? What if she keeps scratching at herself till she bleeds properly? I get up and go to sit next to her, saying nothing. Perhaps having someone beside her will be enough to stop her. Maybe she’ll put the scissors away when she sees me.
She takes no notice of me. I look down at her wrist. A lattice of fine dark lines crisscross one another from where her thumb joins her wrist almost up to her elbow: old scars of attacks she’d made on her own flesh. As she begins to add another line above the first, still showing red, I can’t help myself. I put out my hand to stop the scissors doing their work.
“Becky,” I say, “stop. Stop doing that.”
The blade hangs in the air above her arm. “Why?” she says. Her face is like a plate: flat and white and round. She speaks with no emotion.
“You’re hurting yourself,” I said.
“It’s good if it hurts. Stops you thinking. Done it for years.”
“But the scars . . .” How can it help to scratch a map of bleeding lines on your arms?
“Doesn’t matter about scars. No one’ll see them. Izzy never minded the scars.”
Becky applies herself to the next cut. I want to grab the scissors and take them from her, but how can I? She’d hang on to them. There would be a fuss. Everyone would come running and I’d be in the middle of it. I say, to distract her: “What was Izzy saying to you? I saw her and Rose Manners talking to you.”
Becky puts her scissors away in her bundle, and I’m surprised at the relief I feel. “Rose stole Izzy away,” she says. “Izzy said it was me she loved, only she doesn’t. Not anymore. Rose stole her.” She sounds matter-of-fact.
“You’ll find someone else who’ll love you, I’m sure.”
She stands up. “More fool you if you think so,” she says. “And, besides, I’ll never love anyone else. Not ever. Only Izzy.”
She walks away. I watch her go to her bunk and lie down. What would she be capable of doing? How much is her reason affected by her devotion to Izzy? I don’t leave the lower deck for a long time, and whenever I look she’s still there, exactly the same, like a stone carving on top of an old grave.
* * *
* * *
In the dark, the worst things come to my mind. I can’t sleep. There’s too much to remember.
The nights are much worse than the days. Some of the foul messes that spilled from the slop buckets during the storm haven’t been cleaned away properly and the smell is vile. Some women here have been in prison often but I’m not used to the stench. The troubled ones are at their worst, shouting and moaning coming from every side. Marion weeps every night. Well, I tell myself, as I listen to her sobbing, there are those who give thanks for being rid of a child and those who mourn a scrap of nothing much more than blood as though it were a living, breathing person. Other women turn on their thin mattresses and mumble, snore or cry out in their sleep. I lie in the dark and imagine the fathoms of black ocean moving under the Rajah, and it unsettles me. During the storm, I saw what the sea could do, and now even gentle rolling frightens me.
Joan is still in the hospital, not restored to herself yet. I’m sorry for her but can’t bring myself to condemn Isaac completely. On a long voyage, what could be better than finding a companion of sorts? Someone to talk to, to kiss, to laugh with sometimes.
I try to comfort myself with past memories. My own little house pleased me more than anything ever has before or since. Two rooms downstairs and two upstairs, but they were enough for me. I loved the roses in the little front garden. Two lilac trees, full of fragrant white blossoms in May, grew one on either side of the wooden gate. I lived alone. I was determined, after Samuel’s death, never again to wake up with a man’s head next to mine on the pillow. There was no one to please and I loved my freedom. If I ever felt lust, I knew ways of quenching it quickly without welcoming a man into my bed.
My bed was my sanctuary and I saw to it that whatever else I had to deny myself (and there was much I couldn’t afford in the early days) my linen would be the best I could buy: lace-trimmed and as glowing white as scrubbing, bleaching and careful ironing could make it. I had quilts and knitted shawls to cover me, and many small cushions piled high, covered with satin and plush in every shade of pink and red that I could find. I bought material in the market from a stall owned by Mrs. Bee, a fearsome creature whose daughter, Nora, was a cowed, skinny thing with magic fingers. Nora made my fabric into cushions and delivered them to my house. Whenever she came I brought her into the parlor to pay her. She would gaze, awestruck, at my warm fire and comfortable chairs, as if unable to believe such luxury existed.
What would my life have been if Nora hadn’t come knocking on my door, that dreadful November night? The fog was so thick around her that, at first, I didn’t know who she was. I hadn’t visited her mother’s stall for months. Nora was as thin and small and pale as ever, but that night she was holding a tiny baby in her arms, wrapped in bits of flannel and knitted fabric. A picture of misery, that was what she was.
“Please, Miss,” she said. “Please let me in . . .”
I let her in. I fed her. I listened and she told me her story. How her mother had thrown her out of the house when she knew about the baby. How, now it was born, she didn’t know where to turn, who to go to for help. The baby was vermin, Mrs. Bee said. She was washing her hands of Nora and her child.
“I wish she’d never been born,” Nora sobbed. “I wish I could go back to when she wasn’t there . . . I don’t want her. I can’t look after her . . . I wish . . .”
She was frantic.
I said, “When did you give birth?”
“Yesterday. Or maybe the night before . . . I don’t remember. I don’t want her. Oh, God, forgive me, but I don’t want her. What can I do? Some say there are those who’d pay for a newborn baby . . . You’ve lived a little in the world—d’you know of such people?”
She looked at me with such swimming eyes, with such sorrow in her voice, that I made myself sound stronger than I felt when I spoke. “It’s true. I do know of such people. Why have you come to me? Why do you not go to one of them?”
“I’ve not a penny. I don’t know where to find such a person . . . I couldn’t think of where to go for help but to you. You’ve always been so kind to me.”
“There’s people who’d pay for a newborn,” I said. “I can ask, but for now, you must eat and sleep and clean yourself. I’ll boil a kettle.”
Why did I take her in? She was nothing to me, not really, and I might have shut my door against her. But I didn’t. I was flattered, I suppose, that she’d come to find me, when her own mother had been cold and unforgiving. She must have thought of me as someone who’d help her, and that pleased me. Also, I saw that she’d always be in my debt if I helped her now. If I employed her, she’d do her best for me, and I could see how useful it would b
e to me to have someone in my house who owed me so much. I regret it now, thinking back, but then I told myself she could be a maid and do my bidding for very modest wages. It also came to me: if Nora’s desperate, she’s not the only one. There was a trade in infants; I knew that. Till that night, I hadn’t thought I could be a part of it. The money I had would not last forever and I needed employment. Nora had been so grateful and others would be, too. I was sure of it.
She was the first. It didn’t take me long to learn how things were managed. The poor creature was right. The truth was, there were often those who’d pay for a healthy child. I did well from them, too. And when all else failed, there were many other ways to dispose of unwanted children, as I discovered that night. Once I was sure that Nora was asleep, I wrapped myself in my warmest shawl, took the silent baby from her arms, went out into the fog and walked and walked more than two miles till I came to a very lonely place on the river, far from Putney. Damp and yellowish mists clung to my skirts and muffled the sound of my shoes on the pavement. I saw no one. When I reached the water, I put the baby in the shelter of an old boat, pulled up on the mudflats. Then I turned and walked away.
Was that crying I heard? I closed my ears. I might have imagined the noises. I put one foot in front of the other and bent my head to stare at the ground, all the way home. The clock on the mantel in my parlor stood at three o’clock. I’d been out for less than four hours. I was too exhausted to do more than sink into my armchair, fully dressed. I fell asleep at once, but woke soon after, uncomfortable and stiff. I took off my clothes, washed, put on my nightgown and climbed into my soft white bed, and when I was there, I couldn’t sleep. I lay unmoving till dawn, trying not to think of the baby, trying not to recall where I’d left her. Making up a story to tell Nora about the kind woman who’d taken her child . . . comfortably off, pleasant, and sad after the loss of her own daughter. Perhaps, I told myself, someone would find the child. Rescue her. I fell asleep just before it was time to wake up.