by Hope Adams
“Did you hear Hattie say anything?” Kezia smiled at Sarah, trying to make her feel more comfortable. She looked as though she were longing to get up and run from the room.
“She was asking for Bertie,” said Sarah.
Kezia heard Mr. Davies sigh beside her. He was, she knew, impatient for some new development. All the women questioned so far had said the same thing: Hattie had called for Bertie.
“What exactly did she say?” Charles asked. “Her very words, if you can remember them, please.”
Sarah waited for a few moments, then said, “I heard the name Bertie. She said that several times.”
“Did she say, ‘Not Freddie’?” Mr. Davies asked. “Or perhaps something that sounded like those words?”
“I couldn’t swear as to that, sir. I only heard ‘Bertie.’” The clergyman sighed again.
“Thank you, Sarah,” said Charles. “You may go now, if you’ve nothing else to tell us.”
“I haven’t, sir. Nothing else.”
“Thank you,” said Kezia, and watched as Sarah rose to her feet, her eyes fixed firmly on the rug. She left the room, and Mr. Davies, who had been recording the last few remarks in his elegant hand, threw down his pen. “There must be something else,” he said. “They’re all saying the same thing. We’ll never come to the truth in this fashion.”
“Perhaps Hattie herself will be able to help,” said Mr. Donovan. “Though she’s not recovering as I would have liked . . .”
“I know I ask it every time we speak, but is she still not responding to visits from her child?” Charles wanted to know.
“It’s pitiful to watch them. He sits beside her, holding her hand, with one of the other women beside him to cheer him. I tell them she’s sleeping. She has to sleep, I say, in order to mend, but after a while Bertie becomes restless and they leave.”
Kezia shivered. During the inquiry, it had sometimes seemed to her that they were about to discover the truth of what had happened on the night Hattie was stabbed, but most often, at the end of each session, she was filled with a mixture of anguish and fear. The knife was doubtless at the bottom of the ocean, but the person who had wielded it was still on board the Rajah.
Dull sailing. The Rajah moves in the direction of banks of cloud on the horizon as though the gray masses were a longed-for harbor. Fog hangs in the rigging, veils the decks and masks the outline of the vessel.
33
THEN
Cotton piece: eccentric pattern of bows and diamonds in dark brown
May 1841
CLARA
Sitting in the sunshine, listening to Miss Hayter read aloud from a book of Bible stories intended for children, has made my head ache. She means only to teach us as we work, and some of the women, the ones who can’t read or write, look forward to the readings. The stories they’ve heard from other women, the gossip and scandal of the streets: that’s what they’re used to, so tales of men being swallowed by gigantic fish or killing giants with a single shot from a catapult excite them and they sit with their mouths open in wonder, a lot of them, while Miss Hayter reads, stopping occasionally to urge her listeners to sew. I like the readings. I can stop worrying for a few moments while I’m distracted but always in my thoughts is the fear that Hattie might suddenly remember who I am. Today I feel far from my usual health.
“May I be excused, please?” I say.
Miss Hayter looks up. “Is something the matter? Are you ill?”
“My head aches a little. I’d like to lie down, please.”
“Of course,” she says. “But if your head isn’t better soon, you must report to Mr. Donovan.”
“Yes, Miss Hayter,” I say. I leave them, and go down into the convict quarters. Many women are there, talking in small groups, knitting or sewing their own small pieces of patchwork. Mr. Donovan’s there, too, bending over someone I can’t see. He comes quite often to the lower deck, with his bag of remedies for ordinary complaints, like constipation or red and irritated eyes.
When he stands upright again, I see he’s been looking after Becky Finch. She’s in her bunk and he’s looking around for someone to help him. I go up to him at once. “What’s the matter with Becky, sir?” I ask. “Can I help you?”
“Thank you, yes. I’d have brought Joan with me, but she’s busy in the hospital. Two sailors have eye infections. I didn’t know this would be so serious. If you could take her other side, we’ll help her to walk.”
I’m shaken to see that Becky’s bedclothes are stained dark with blood. Her arm is bandaged roughly and her face is gray. We stumble in silence along the deck and up to the hospital and there is Joan, who takes charge at once, leading Becky to one of the bunks and fetching wet cloths and clean bandages.
“Here’s a lucky woman,” says Mr. Donovan. “If Nathaniel hadn’t been returning some slop buckets to their places,” Mr. Donovan says, “she’d have died for certain. Blood pouring out of her wrist. Self-inflicted, clearly. The scissors were in her hand.”
He turns to me. “Thank you,” he says.
I nod and am about to leave when I decide to speak. “Have you seen her arms?” I ask him.
“I have indeed.” He sighs. “This poor young woman wanted to end her life. I’m sure of it. I can’t let that happen on this ship.” He goes to his desk and begins looking at his log.
My heart begins to beat very fast and my throat is dry. Surely he won’t put me in charge of looking after her. I couldn’t bear it: someone else’s life dependent on my care.
“Lily Hughes,” he says at last, looking up at me. “D’you know her?”
“I haven’t spoken to her, but I know who she is,” I answer.
“She’s in the log as a nursemaid. Does she seem steady?”
Lily Hughes is a stolid, silent, unremarkable woman, who seems dull to me. She’s one of a gaggle of women who are also dull. Birds of a feather flocking together. “I’m sure there’s no harm in her,” I say.
“I would’ve asked you,” he says, “but I know you’re one of Miss Hayter’s company and I felt sure other women would be willing to help in this matter.”
I go back to the others, who are still sewing on deck, relieved that I’d been spared the care of Becky Finch. Miss Hayter has already left. I sit down among my companions, feeling fortunate to have been chosen to spend my days stitching together squares and triangles of cloth for hours on end. The other women fill their days as best they can. They knit, gossip, quarrel and doze. They work on their own small patchworks. But for those of us in Miss Hayter’s company, it is a great relief to have a daily obligation.
“Where you been, then?” says Rose.
“Helping Mr. Donovan with Becky Finch,” I answer. “She was half dead when he found her. Cut her wrists.”
The others want to know every detail.
“She’s a cutter,” Ruth remarks. “They’re funny. Don’t seem to feel the pain.”
“Pickpocket,” Tabitha adds. “Seen many like her at work. Lots of them quite handy with a knife. Not often on themselves, though. More on others. Cut a pocket from a dress in an eyeblink.”
I let them talk. When the speculation dies down, Susan says, “Well, you going to tell us then? What’ll happen to Becky now?”
“Mr. Donovan told me to keep quiet,” I answer, “but he’s seeing to it that she’s looked after.” I bend my head to my work. The others start to chatter and mutter. Izzy and Rose aren’t feeling in the least guilty, that much is clear, but Phyllis leans over and points her threaded needle at Izzy.
“It’s you two made Becky do that!” she announces, in the ringing tones of a judge speaking from the Bench. “You were hand in glove with her, Izzy, weren’t you, to start with? Then you went all soppy about that madam there.” The needle swings round to point at Rose.
“Shut your face,” says Rose, quite calmly. “Becky’s feebleminded
. Anyone who slices into herself over and over’s feebleminded. That’s what I think. Izzy don’t want no feebleminded friends.”
“Cruel as well as stupid,” says Dora, who doesn’t often speak. “That’s what you are, Rose Manners.” We all turn to her to hear what will come next. “You don’t know what’s led her to cut herself. She may have had dreadful things done to her. You can’t say she’s feebleminded. Maybe she thought being hurt or dead was better.”
“You’re the stupid one,” says Izzy. “How can being hurt be better than being not hurt? How can being dead be better than being alive?”
Dora doesn’t answer and neither does anyone else. I could tell them the answer, though I don’t. Being hurt in a small way is a distraction from an injury that’s even more painful. And being dead might be preferable to being alive and unloved. I can understand not wanting to be in the world. I’ve never had the courage to end my own life, but I understand Becky perfectly.
34
NOW
9 July 1841
Ninety-five days at sea
KEZIA
“You’re sad, Kezia,” said Charles. He was sitting at the table, and Kezia was in one of the armchairs on the other side of the cabin, staring at her lap. Mr. Donovan and the Reverend Mr. Davies would arrive at any moment. “It’s to be expected, with Hattie showing no signs of improvement, but you must be brave.”
“It’s when I come from taking Bertie to his mother that I feel it most. He asks and asks when she’ll be better. What if she dies? What then?”
Charles left the table and knelt down near Kezia, putting his hand on the arm of the chair. “We must be hopeful. What’s the point in going through every bad thing in advance, when it may not happen? When Hattie may live?”
“Your optimistic outlook is admirable,” Kezia said, though she couldn’t help feeling that a little pessimism might be more appropriate in this case. She was losing sleep, worrying about the outcome of their inquiry. How could they get to the truth if every woman came forward with a version of the same story? Whenever she sat with the circle of needlewomen, sewing on deck, she listened for what the others were saying.
No point looking for a knife . . . Whoever it is will’ve chucked it over the side . . . Someone was jealous of Hattie. Has she been after Isaac, Joan? Don’t speak to Joan like that . . . Rather remarkably, it had been Sarah who’d come to Joan’s defense. She rarely took sides in any argument, but Joan was so obviously good that even Sarah was prompted to defend her.
It was Joan who was coming before them today.
“Joan Macdonald,” said Kezia. “She is perhaps the most skillful of my women. She and Hattie are the most accomplished. Joan’s older than many of the others and she’s charged with disposing of stolen goods. I’ve seen nothing violent about her. She is quiet and careful.”
“As far as you know,” Mr. Davies added. “Appearances and utterances can be deceptive. There are times when we have to suspect a person isn’t speaking completely honestly.”
Before Kezia could summon an answer to convey her irritation without being openly rude, there was a knock at the door and two sailors brought Joan into the cabin. She walked with her head bent, and her hands clasped together at her waist.
“Good day to you, Joan Macdonald,” Charles said. “Please sit on the chair there.”
Joan did so, and folded her hands in her lap. She was staring straight in front of her.
Kezia said gently, “Joan, we’re only trying to find out exactly what happened to Hattie. Were you close by when she fell to the deck?”
“I was quite close. I didn’t see what happened, not really. Only when Hattie fell down . . . she cried out so loud that we all turned to look. She was lying doubled up. I could have seen the person who did it if I’d been looking in her direction, but I was not. I was putting away some of my own things. We’d just packed away our work . . . I was, I confess, lost in my own thoughts, and I regret that now, very much.”
“We have been told repeatedly that you all went straight to help Hattie,” Mr. Davies said wearily. “Do you confirm that?”
Joan nodded. “Me and Marion and Tabitha ran to her. Phyllis and Ann were still further back, and Sarah was there, too, somewhere.”
“What about Emily Paxton?”
“She was nearer to the companionway than the rest of us. We called to her because Hattie wanted Bertie. We called to Emily to fetch him from below.”
“Ah,” said Charles. “That is why you called Emily to fetch him? Because she was nearest to the companionway already? The furthest away from where Hattie was lying? It would therefore be sensible for her to bring the child for that reason?”
Joan seemed to consider. “Yes,” she said at last. “That’s true. But we all thought . . .” She fell silent.
“What did you think, Joan?” Kezia asked.
“We thought those around her were calling Emily to fetch him because Emily was Hattie’s friend.”
“Were not all of you friends of a sort?” Mr. Donovan said.
“Emily was closest to Hattie. Emily is very fond of her. She admired her.” Joan spoke quietly but firmly.
“What did Hattie say?” Kezia asked. “When she called out for Bertie.”
“She said, ‘Bertie.’” Joan’s voice shook and she wiped at a corner of her eye. “Then . . . something like ‘Not Freddie.’”
“But are you sure that’s what she said?” Kezia was insistent. “Was it truly ‘Not Freddie’? Could it perhaps have been ‘Not ready’?” As she asked the question, she was aware of the irritation of the others. They had, it was true, been over the same ground many times. But she wanted to be sure of everything and felt angered when Mr. Davies took a deep breath, as if to say, What kind of question is that? We’ve already ascertained that there’s no one called Freddie aboard this ship. What difference does it make? All that matters (and everyone is in agreement about this) is that Hattie wanted her son brought to her.
“I can’t remember. But we were crying out to Emily to fetch Bertie. It was pitiful.”
“Perhaps,” said Kezia, “Freddie is someone Hattie knew in London. Maybe she has a relation with that name.”
Mr. Davies ignored this remark. “Go on,” he said to Joan. “Have you anything else to add?”
“Fetching Bertie seemed to take a very long time,” Joan answered. “Every second we waited seemed to be an hour. And when he arrived, it was too late. Hattie’d gone, taken away by Mr. Donovan and a few sailors.”
“What happened when Emily and Bertie arrived?” Mr. Davies asked.
“Oh, that was the worst thing I’ve ever seen, sadder than anything. It was—I don’t even like to think about it, that poor little boy.”
“Can you think of anyone,” Charles asked, “on board this ship who would profit in some way from Hattie’s death?”
“Profit?” Joan gave a scornful laugh. “There’s nothing among the lot of us anyone could profit from! We’re convicts, not a penny to any of our names.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Davies.
Once again, every woman has said the same things, Kezia thought. We know that Hattie was threatened with death. We know someone tried to kill her, so we’re assuming whoever embroidered the threat also tried to kill her. That’s not necessarily true. No one has asked any of the women about private patchwork they may have done. No one has tried to find out anything about the embroidered threat left on Hattie’s pillow. Which may have nothing to do with her stabbing, but if that is the case, we have to assume that two women may want Hattie dead.
The very idea was beyond her understanding.
“Thank you, Joan,” said Charles. “You may go.”
Joan stood up and left the room. As she opened the door, one of the sailors who’d been waiting outside for her came forward with his companion and led her away to the living quarters. How old she looks, though
t Kezia, her shoulders bowed, her steps shuffling and slow.
“I agree with Kezia,” said Charles. “That woman doesn’t look capable of violence.”
“We are all,” said Mr. Davies, “capable of violence if we’re sufficiently provoked.”
With this announcement, and a final blotting of his inky words, he stood up. “I must bid you farewell now. We will be in Van Diemen’s Land in a few days and I’ve a great deal of correspondence to finish before we land there. Several important letters to be sent back to England. I’ll return to speak to the women we’re seeing this afternoon. Good morning to you.”
“He knows his letters are more important than anyone else’s, to be sure.” Mr. Donovan’s voice was full of wry amusement. “But we’re no nearer to finding out the truth of this matter. I must go to Hattie. I still hope she will wake at any moment and tell us what happened. She does speak, but of strange things. Cats, for the most part.”
Kezia was lost in thought. In all the days they’d been on board the Rajah, Hattie had never once mentioned cats.
35
NOW
9 July 1841
Ninety-five days at sea
Through all the weeks they’d been aboard the Rajah, the women took turns to help Marion. Her anguish was always worst in the middle of the night, and it wasn’t unusual for her to be accompanied out of the living quarters by one of her companions. The sailors had reported this to the captain, and he’d agreed that, in order to keep everything calm and quiet, Marion would be allowed to come up on deck for a while, even when the other women were asleep. Tonight, Sarah was with her. As they leaned over the rail, Marion said, “I have bad feelings in my blood.”
“In my bones, you mean,” Sarah said. “That’s what you say. You feel something in your bones. My gran used to say that. Her bones told her things every day.”