Dangerous Women

by Hope Adams

  “No,” Marion insisted. “It’s in my blood. I can feel a burning in my veins. There’s blood rushing round my head and it’s heavy and dark.”

  “You’re ill again, are you? Like before?”

  “Not like that. I lost so much blood. This feels like there’s too much blood in my veins, blocking them up.”

  Sarah decided to say nothing. Everyone knew Marion had suffered a miscarriage, because Beth hadn’t been shy about spreading the story. Sarah liked Marion well enough, but no one would have said she was clever, and maybe she hadn’t cottoned to the truth of things. Perhaps she’d thought her monthlies were a little heavy and no more than that.

  “We’re worried about Hattie,” Sarah said. “That’s why you feel like that, maybe. You were on deck, so you feel it more, I suppose. I do, I know that.”

  “I fear it, Sarah. I fear her death. They’ll take one of us and hang us if she dies. What if it’s me?”

  “But was it you who stabbed her?”

  Marion gasped aloud. “No, of course I didn’t. How could you think that? But it doesn’t mean I mightn’t be accused.”

  “I know you didn’t. I’m sure they know you didn’t, too. Marion, they’re good people. Clever people. They’ll know you didn’t stab Hattie, I’m sure.”

  “What if I stabbed her without knowing about it? I sometimes forget things, you know. But Miss Hayter won’t let them hurt me, will she?”

  Sarah sighed. Marion was a poor soul and she shouldn’t be unkind but really . . . “No, Marion,” she said at last. “Miss Hayter will see you right. She’ll know you’re innocent.”

  “But I feel bad, Sarah. Something dreadful’s going to happen.”

  “Come back with me and sleep now,” said Sarah. “You’re tired. Come and lie down.”

  “In the dark. I hate the dark.”

  “But it’s dark out here, too. Can’t you see?” She waved an arm at the blackness that lay just outside the circle of light thrown by a hanging lantern. “A huge black sea out there . . .”

  “The stars,” said Marion, pointing up to where the sky was thickly scattered with points of light that shimmered. “I love the stars. Aren’t any stars down there.”

  As she spoke, Sarah was leading her to the companionway. The salt smell of the ocean, the light breeze and the glittering stars were left behind as the women went down the steps and the stuffy blackness of the convict quarters enveloped them.

  36

  NOW

  9 July 1841

  Ninety-five days at sea

  KEZIA

  Sitting next to Hattie, holding her hand as she lay feverish in her narrow bunk, troubled Kezia. It reminded her of days when her beloved papa was sick at home. Mama was always there next to him, with Kezia and Henrietta very often at her side. I was only five, she told herself now. Of course I was frightened to see him so changed, so unlike himself, but I am grown now. What had not changed, though, and was still just as dreadful as ever, was the knowledge that Death lurked in this small cabin set aside on the Rajah. Mr. Donovan kept the shadows at bay as well as he could, in a place that was as clean as possible, but still, Kezia was aware of Death’s black wings ready to be unfurled, shadowing all with a special darkness. Mr. Donovan sat some way off at a small table. A cupboard was pushed up against one wall. In it he kept his medicines and potions. His instruments and bandages lay in a chest of drawers much like her own.

  Hattie was mumbling again. Her eyes were closed, her lips parched and flaking. Kezia leaned forward to catch her words. She took her hand and began to stroke it. “Dear Hattie, are you better today? You’re speaking. Bertie . . . Did you see him? He comes to see you every day, you know.”

  “Not Freddie. He’s not.” The voice was a whisper, less than a whisper, cracked and broken, too. It was hard to understand the words. Kezia felt an eagerness, an excitement, rising within her. What was she about to hear?

  “Who isn’t? Who is Freddie? One of your brothers? Do you know where you are, dear? It’s the Rajah. You’re on the Rajah, going to Van Diemen’s Land . . . We’re nearly there, you know.”

  Perhaps she can’t hear me, Kezia thought, close to tears. Then, miraculously, Hattie spoke again. Kezia missed the words and was filled with despair. “What did you say, Hattie? Tell me . . . Please tell me,” she said, trying to keep the frustration she felt out of her voice.

  “Sarah . . .” Hattie murmured. “Not Sarah Goodbourne . . . I mustn’t tell.”

  Kezia frowned. “What do you mean . . . about Sarah?”

  “She isn’t. Not Sarah . . . She’s not her. Kitty. I want my little Kitty back . . .”

  Mr. Donovan jumped up from his seat and hurried to join Kezia at the bedside. She said, “Did you hear what she murmured just now? Kitty was her sister and I believe she died . . . but what about Sarah?” Her voice shook and she clamped her teeth together hard, to steady herself.

  “She’s delirious, Miss Hayter. There’s little sense in what she says. Or if there is sense, I can make nothing of it.”

  Kezia bent closer to Hattie again. “What d’you mean, Hattie dear? Say it again . . . Not Sarah? I don’t understand.”

  Nothing but silence came from Hattie. Donovan sighed. “That’s all the speech you’ll get from her now. Maybe for the rest of the day. She’s unable to say anything for the most part. I’ve asked her repeatedly who stabbed her, to no avail. This attempt at speech may be her last. She has been very weak . . . We must prepare ourselves for the very worst, I fear.”

  She turned to the bunk once more. There was no color in Hattie’s face, and her breath was ragged and bubbling in her chest. Kezia closed her eyes and prayed. Please, dear Lord, save Hattie. Don’t let her die. Keep her alive for her child, for Bertie . . . and give me strength to deal with whatever may happen.

  Mr. Donovan stood suddenly. “I can hear the change in her breathing, Miss Hayter. I’m afraid that this is the end,” he whispered. “Perhaps you should leave the room. Dying is never easy.”

  “Thank you, I will stay,” Kezia answered. Sadness washed over her and the shock that always afflicts the heart at the approach of death. “I’ll hold Hattie’s hand.”

  She could not, later, have said how long it was, the time between knowing Hattie would die and the moment her spirit left her body. Each breath rose from her chest with a terrible bubbling sound. Her mouth hung open. Her eyes had rolled back in her head and Kezia wanted more than anything to close her own but found she could not. She stared down at poor Hattie, so pretty, so pale and weak. At last, after minutes that seemed to go on far too long, silence fell in the small cabin. She’s gone to our Lord, Kezia thought, feeling again the numbness around the heart that she remembered from childhood. She’ll be in Heaven. I must believe that . . . far from pain and fear and every unhappiness.

  “Miss Hayter, I’m so sorry. I could do no more than I did.”

  Kezia shook her head, unable to answer. He nodded as he closed Hattie’s eyes. Looking carefully at Kezia, he said: “Will you tell poor little Bertie? I’ll do so, if you’d rather.”

  “No, no,” Kezia said. “I’ll tell him. Then I’ll bring him to see his poor mother.”

  “I’ll make her as much like herself as I can,” said Mr. Donovan. “For the child. But then we must commit her body to the sea. Captain’ll want to do things properly.”

  “And the women . . . There must be a funeral. Will you speak to Mr. Davies?”

  “I will, Miss Hayter. Don’t trouble yourself on that account.”

  Kezia walked slowly along the deck to find Bertie. She could see some of her sewing women under the awning, stitching diligently. Sarah, Rose, Tabitha, Susan and Ruth were adding squares to what would be the last border of the coverlet. Should she tell them first? Part of her wanted to, very much, wanted the comfort of other people, who would cry with her, and cling together. Maybe she could cling to them
too . . .

  But, no, Bertie should be the first to know. The others would find out soon enough. Kezia paused to look over the railing at the sea. She stared down at water that, in the bright sunlight, glittered like a metal sheet: gold, or bronze, broken into ripples at the hull. How peaceful, quiet and cool it would be to plunge down and down into its depths, away from everything. Soon, very soon, Hattie would be there, under its weight, surrounded by water forever, picked at by sea creatures, her bones white on pale sand, hidden by fronds of the slippery green weeds that grew below the surface. Oh, poor Hattie! Poor Bertie . . . Kezia closed her eyes briefly. Then she stood up as straight and tall as she could, trying to calm herself. I must be the steady one. The consoler. She sighed and went on, looking for Bertie.

  Then she saw him. He was with the other children, sitting on a bench in the shade of one of the sails, and Emily was reading to them from the Bible. As Kezia came up to the group, Emily fell silent and stood up. She knows, Kezia thought. She can see it in my face. Bertie’s hair in the sunshine was like a fiery halo around his head.

  “Emily,” said Kezia, trying to steady her voice, “please could you send the other children away? I must talk to Bertie.”

  “Go and find your mothers now, children,” Emily said. “Miss Hayter wants a word with Bertie.” She ushered the others away and Kezia was aware of her presence, standing some way off.

  Was it the sun? The heat? Suddenly, the deck seemed to her as liquid as the sea around them, swimming under her gaze. Kezia felt herself trembling as she walked to the bench and sat down beside Bertie. All the words, all the things she thought she should say, left her. Flew out of her head. She turned the child to face her and put both arms around him. His little body was so thin, so thin. “Dearest Bertie, I’m very, very sorry to have to tell you . . . your mother has died. She’s gone and she’s at peace now, with no pain to suffer any longer, but I’m so very sorry, my dearest child.”

  Bertie looked at her and sat very still. “You said she’d be better, you and the doctor.” He was whispering, hardly able to speak. “You didn’t say she’d die. You never said . . .”

  Kezia took his wrists and held them gently in her hands. “I know, Bertie, I know. We hoped. We prayed and hoped, and we thought she’d live . . . but she died. God’s taken her to Heaven. She’ll be with the angels. They’ll look after her.”

  “But I want her. Don’t want angels to have her. I want my ma. She’s my ma.”

  “We’ll care for you, Bertie. The captain will think very carefully and we’ll find the best person possible to look after you. You mustn’t fret . . .”

  Bertie was weeping now. Kezia held him as he cried, and minutes went by as they clung together. At last his tears stopped and his small body trembled as he wiped his eyes with Kezia’s handkerchief.

  “Would you like to see her, Bertie? Your mother? Say good-bye to her?”

  Bertie nodded, and as they walked along the deck, Kezia was aware of Emily, stiff and frozen with shock near the ship’s rail. She could see the other women, too, now standing. They all know, she thought. They can see. They must’ve heard Bertie sobbing. As she walked, she noticed one of the women going down to the lower deck. Everyone would be told soon enough.

  “Come, Bertie,” she said, when they reached the hospital. “You’re going to have to be very brave now.”

  Bertie had been holding tight to her hand, but as the door opened, he pulled away from her and ran straight toward the bed where Hattie lay. The sounds coming from him now were those of a small animal being tormented: a terrifying cry that she wished she’d never heard and which didn’t stop but filled the small cabin and screamed in her ears. Kezia knew that this sound, this horror, would come to her in nightmares for as long as she lived. Bertie had flung himself on his mother’s body and was sobbing into the sheet that covered her.

  Mr. Donovan walked to the child and put his hands on Bertie’s back. “There, there,” he said, stroking him, soothing him in the way you’d soothe a frightened horse. At last Bertie was quiet. He sat back on his heels on the floor beside the bunk and Mr. Donovan knelt beside him.

  “You’re a big boy, Bertie, and you must know something. If she’d lived, your mama would have been very sick. She’d have been in great pain. She was very badly wounded and she wouldn’t have been the same mama as you had before. She has no pain now. She’s at peace. And she loved you so much, Bertie. She wanted only your happiness. She’d want you to be happy.”

  “I can’t,” Bertie wailed. “Not without her. Not without my real ma.”

  “Not today. Maybe not for a long time, but you must try to be brave. See, I have her tin label for you, Bertie. Take it and put it round your neck. Then you’ll remember your mother and how she wore it and you’ll feel some comfort from holding her name near your heart.”

  Bertie said nothing as Mr. Donovan put the tin ticket round his neck. For a moment, he paused in his crying and looked down at his mother’s name. He picked up the label and turned it. “Harriet Matthews,” he said.

  “You’ve learned to read well, I see,” said Mr. Donovan.

  “It’s my ma’s name,” said Bertie. “I can’t really read it properly. But I know that’s her name.”

  “Your dear mother will be looking down at you from Heaven and you must make her proud of you, Bertie. Be good and kind and brave.”

  Bertie started crying again.

  * * *

  * * *

  Even though the news was known all over the ship, the captain himself came down to announce Hattie’s death formally to the women in the convict quarters. Those who were closest to Hattie wiped their eyes. Bertie, exhausted by the events of the day, was asleep on his berth with Joan, Phyllis and Emily close beside him.

  “Poor mite,” said Joan, stroking his hair as he lay with his face turned into his pillow. “Motherless.”

  “She’s here, though. Can’t you feel her presence? She’ll be here, near her boy,” Dwyer said. “Her spirit will be haunting this ship, mark my words. She’ll not lie easy till justice is done.”

  Everyone who heard her shuddered and gathered closer together on the bunks and benches. Hattie had been so lively, her hair shining like red gold, her laugh scattering the misery of the lower deck. Of course she would be missed. Some of the women felt real sorrow, but even those who wouldn’t give her the time of day felt a kind of sadness simply because death, and especially murder, trumped what you thought of a person.

  The Newgate Nannies had taken up a position on a nearby bench. Even they were uncharacteristically somber. “Can’t get away from it. We’re all looking behind us now. Who knows who’s out there, thinking to do it again?”

  “It ain’t me,” Tabitha said quickly. “No need to look at me, just cos I was on deck. Saw nothing.”

  “No one’s saying it is, Tab,” said Dwyer. “Only a fool would think that.” She looked around at the others with her wandering eye, daring anyone to suggest Tabitha might be guilty. “Tab’s one of us and no one’d better say the Newgate Nannies are stabbers. Looking at a murder charge now, and no one’d better say we’re murderers. That’s all.”

  “It’s bad, a death on board ship,” Selwood said. “Unlucky. Will they find who did it, d’you think?”

  “Bound to. Maybe they know already.” That was Phyllis.

  “Don’t be so daft. What’d be the point of carrying on with the questioning if they know already? Your head’s full of bits of moldy straw—that’s your trouble,” said Ruth.

  “What’ll happen to the one who killed her? That’s what I want to know,” Izzy wondered. “Will she be taken back to England to hang?”

  “Got gallows in Van Diemen’s Land, ain’t they? Why’d they bother taking someone back? Nothing but a waste of space, that’d be. No, they’ll hand whoever it is over to the Van Diemen’s Land folk and let them deal with her.”

 
“They’ll bury Hattie tomorrow. Commit her body to the deep. That’s what they say for a burial at sea,” Emily said.

  “That’s sadder than anything,” said Marion. “No grave for Bertie to visit. Nowhere to put flowers. Nowhere to go on special days. It’s hard, that.”

  “Don’t make no difference. An orphan’s an orphan. Bloody great statue of an angel ain’t going to cheer him up, is it?” Rose chipped in.

  “But think of the water. Her body’ll be all bloated and swollen. Horrible. I’ve seen ’em pulling suicides from the river. It’s not pretty,” Tabitha said.

  “Shut your filthy mouth!” Dora was crying now. “I’m not going to think of her like that. Just shut it, if you can’t say nothing good. It’s a crying shame, that’s what it is, her dying so young and so pretty.”

  One by one, the women returned to their own berths and lay down, but it was hard to sleep. As the night wore on, the Rajah began to roll and pitch as though the sea itself could find no rest.

  * * *

  * * *

  When daylight came, the sky was black with storm clouds. By noon a squall was driving in from the east, and the women who’d gathered to pay their respects to Hattie as she was buried clutched their shawls around them and bent their heads. If anyone was weeping, their tears mingled with the driving rain. The whole crew of the Rajah joined the convict women on the deck to hear Mr. Davies say the words, fine words, to accompany Hattie Matthews to the bottom of the ocean. No one would have heard them, however grand they were, if anyone else had spoken them, but the wind was no match for Reverend Davies: “Out of the deep have I called unto thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice . . .” He stood, head held high, and intoned the psalm over the heads of the assembled crowd. Everyone listened to the mixed wailing and speaking and to the wind blowing.

  A stillness fell on the crowd as two sailors approached the rail carrying Hattie’s body on a stretcher. She’d been sewn into a piece of canvas, with metal weights, but it was easy to make out her shape, as the thick, wet fabric clung to it. Kezia prayed that God would look after poor Bertie, who had to see such a thing. He won’t forget, she thought. Some things stick to the mind, and as long as he lived, at unexpected moments Bertie would see this: everyone in dark clothes, the rain driving down and pricking the surface of the water with a million small spears, and a horrible dun-colored thing with his mother’s shape, sliding down to the sea where it made an almost inaudible splash and was gone.