by Hope Adams
After the women had filed away, Miss Hayter was left holding Bertie’s hand.
“Come with me,” she said. “We’ll go to the captain’s cabin, find a towel to dry you and rest there for a while. A drink of cordial . . .”
Of what use were all the sweet things in the world when your mother was lying on the seabed and you were sailing away from her last resting place?
Joan hung back when the others went down into the living quarters. The squall had passed. The rain had stopped and there was scarcely any wind. The sea was still choppy, each wave that passed marked with white crests. She looked over the rail into the water, thought of Bertie, all alone in the world. That reminded her of Lydia’s children. My little darlings, she thought, my babies.
“Joan,” said a voice behind her, and she turned to see Isaac Margrove. He held out his handkerchief. “Are you in need of my handkerchief again?”
“I shan’t cry but I’m sad for Bertie,” Joan said.
“He’ll be well cared for, I’m sure,” said Isaac, coming to stand beside her at the ship’s rail. “The cap’n will see him right. And it’s good to speak to you, Joan. I’ve missed our conversations.”
Joan sighed. “I’ve missed them, too.”
They stood awkwardly next to one another, not touching, both turning their gaze on the ocean, rushing past the hull. Isaac said, “I look at you women as I go about. I see the work you’ve done on that patchwork. That’s fine work.”
“Thank you,” said Joan. “It’s good to have that to do.”
The two of them looked at one another. Isaac, so ready with the talk in the normal run of things, didn’t know what to say and shifted from foot to foot. Joan knew that she could help him. All she had to do was smile, hold out her hand; he would take it and they could move to the space behind that barrel where he would kiss her and, for a moment or two, she could be happy. Would that be so wrong? Perhaps it wouldn’t. Maybe, because they were only a few days away from land, it wouldn’t matter. They’d be parted soon enough. I could forget myself, Joan thought. I could love another woman’s man just for a little while, and how wrong would that be? She shook her head. Wrong was wrong and, as if it were a sign from Heaven, the boatswain came striding up the deck.
“I’ll bid you good day,” said Isaac, bowing. “Please keep the handkerchief.”
“Thank you,” said Joan. She watched him walk away from her and felt her heart shrinking. She tucked the handkerchief into her pocket. The second gift from Isaac. It’ll remind me of a good man, she thought, as she went down the companionway to the lower deck.
Rain-soaked sailing: the Rajah passes through curtains of blowing rain, her decks awash, her sails sodden, the wood above the waterline as wet as the wood below it. She bends to the water enveloping her, and the horizon is dark and hung with cloud.
37
NOW
11 July 1841
Ninety-seven days at sea
KEZIA
Sleep had almost deserted her. What would Bertie’s fate be, alone in the world without Hattie? The poor boy hung around Emily and the women, unwilling to play with the other children, and quiet in every gathering. Who could be trusted to look after him once they arrived in Van Diemen’s Land?
The inquiry had flagged. They had spoken with Ann, who merely wept and had very little to add. They would speak to Phyllis later in the day, but as outspoken as she was, they’d learn little that was new, Kezia was sure. And now they had a murderer to find, and the weight of this responsibility lay heavy on Charles and the others, too. Kezia’s mind went back to Hattie’s last words. What had they meant? She’d spoken to no one about those last words. Mr. Donovan could not have heard them. Sarah isn’t Sarah . . . Not Freddie . . . She told me not to tell . . . Kitty.
Sarah . . . What did Sarah Goodbourne, who was dull and quiet and altogether unremarkable, have to do with Freddie? She’d heard Hattie speaking of Kitty before: I did have a younger sister, but I’m sure she’s dead now . . . Kitty, she was called.
She wished she knew who Freddie was. Charles had assured her that there was no one by that name in the crew. And, from what Kezia had observed, Sarah kept herself mostly to herself and showed no great interest in any of the women or in Hattie. Was Freddie something to do with Sarah? Was Freddie someone Hattie had to keep quiet about? Was someone telling her this when she stitched Speak & you die on that cotton square? Kezia sighed in frustration, slapping her hand against her pillow. I have to speak to Sarah, she thought.
Should she consult the men, she wondered, and tell them her intentions? No. Mr. Davies would immediately decide that the mere mention of Sarah’s name from Hattie’s lips meant that she was guilty of the stabbing. Charles and Mr. Donovan would probably agree with him. No, Kezia told herself. I must see Sarah on my own.
Thinking about Charles calmed her a little, and Kezia was struck by a surprising thought: whatever the situation, however troubling and difficult, the idea of Charles, the memory of his face, made her happy somewhere in her deepest heart, a place seemingly separate from the rest of her being.
But before she spoke to Sarah, she had to attend a meeting of the inquiry.
* * *
* * *
“Well, now,” said Charles, to Kezia and the others gathered at the table in his cabin. He was frowning, and when he spoke, there was a heaviness in his voice. “Matters have, as you know, become more serious since we last met. We are now having to deal with a murderer in our midst.”
“Indeed, and we must find her out,” said Mr. Davies. “We must not land with this unresolved. The authorities in Hobart will want to know exactly what they’re dealing with. Have you any suggestions, Miss Hayter?”
Kezia shook her head. “I will talk to my needlewomen again this morning, but I cannot see that someone will suddenly have anything useful to add to our deliberations.”
“Perhaps we should bring our suspects together and ask them as a group,” Mr. Donovan suggested.
“Let’s wait and see what effect Hattie’s death has on her companions,” Charles said. “Someone might say something. Miss Hayter can ask what’s being said by women in the convict quarters. If we’re no nearer a solution tomorrow, we’ll have them here again, and question them together. We’re very close to our destination, no more than a week away, I’d say.”
Kezia stood up. “I’ll bring the women out on deck. We’ll talk about Hattie, I’m sure of it.” She wondered where she would find the occasion to speak to Sarah on her own, but was determined to do so. The men wouldn’t understand why such a conversation was so urgent, or so necessary. I can hardly, she thought, explain it to myself.
38
THEN
Cotton piece: white ground, with block-printed three-petalled red flowers and brown leaves
July 1841
CLARA
Stitching allows you to think. The others talk among themselves and I join in from time to time, but mostly I’m quiet. Memories of the past come to me too vividly. Today, we’re in the shade of the awning, even though it’s no longer hot. Miss Hayter’s not here, for now, and the others are speaking about their men. It’s natural, I suppose, that some women have favorites among the crew. Keeping the men entirely separate from the women at all times would be impossible. The younger ones are sure that the captain is in love with Miss Hayter, and when the matron’s not among us, they’re free with their opinions and their language.
Beth says, “They’re stiff enough when they walk the deck, but what happens when he gets her alone? Is he stiff, more likely?”
“When are they alone, though?” Phyllis asks. “I’ve only seen them walking about. What can you do when you’re walking about?”
Izzy says, “I can think of things . . . They get to somewhere quiet and he opens his breeches. She’s only got to put out her hand and there’d be spray all over the deck—and I don’t mean seawater.�
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Rose and Ruth giggle at that, and Phyllis sniffs. “I can’t imagine Miss Hayter—”
“Well, I can,” says Ruth. “And there’s the night, too. Just imagine Captain Ferguson, Phyllis, tiptoeing to her cabin, sliding in next to her on the bunk, lifting her nightgown, then sliding himself into her just like a slippery eel only made very hard . . .”
Ruth, Rose and Izzy are weak with laughter but Phyllis’s face is scarlet.
“Never!” she says. “She’s a God-fearing young woman, is Miss Hayter. She’d never let a man near her, not without no wedding ring first. Not her.”
“That’s far from the truth. I’ve known godly women,” says Rose, “plenty of them, and they’d spread their legs quick as the next once they’d felt an itch.”
“That’s disgusting.” Phyllis makes a face. “I won’t believe it and I’d thank you to keep a respectful tongue in your head.”
Izzy says, “I reckon Phyllis is right, though. I don’t think they’ve got to that yet. I’d be able to tell.”
“That’s bilge,” Alice puts in. “She might be better at hiding things than you’d reckon. May the Good Lord protect her from temptation, but it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch.” She nods firmly to emphasize the importance of this remark, which is one I’ve heard often in my life. What I’ve found is it’s true sometimes and at others it’s not. There’s no way on God’s earth of knowing what goes on between two people once lights are out and clothes are off.
The others go on talking. I say as little as I can, but make a remark from time to time. Mostly my thoughts go back to the past. I should never have let myself fall so much in love. My whole life I’ve kept myself removed from such emotions. I’d seen other women, watched the storms of feeling wash over them when their hearts had been stolen. Every bit of good sense they ever had disappeared overnight. I swore I wouldn’t ever be like them. I’ve admired some men. I’ve been grateful to others, particularly Samuel and his friends. It was worth it—their attentions turned me into a person of property. I’ve desired others and let them fuck me. But Edmund wasn’t like any other man. He knew nothing about me or my work.
I met him by chance, walking along the street. I tripped on a piece of wood lying in the road and he caught me before I fell. He’d pulled me toward him to set me on my feet again, and in that instant, I was lost. I didn’t see it then, but as we began to know one another better, I liked him more and more. Two days from our first meeting, he came to my house and into my bed. After that, I spent hours dreaming about him when I should have been doing other things, going over the words we’d said, my flesh alive and throbbing when I recalled what we’d done in the dark. On days when I knew he would visit me, every part of me wanted him, wanted his hands on me, felt the need for him so much that every last part of me was on fire.
He had a wife. He had three small children. We never mentioned them. I wanted to know nothing about the rest of his life, because if he spoke of that, my conscience would be stirred and that was the last thing I wanted when I was with Edmund. I wished him mine. I wanted him to have no history and nothing else in his life apart from me. I didn’t mind having only part of his attention. All I cared about was making our hours together as pleasant as they could be. What came over us, on the night we went into the Flag Inn, was a kind of madness. We should have kept to my house and not ventured out, like ordinary lovers. We shouldn’t have drunk a single drop of anything stronger than cordial. And Edmund shouldn’t have come to my rescue when a boorish, ill-favored dolt began to call me whore, drab and worse, as he reached out to touch me. I try not to think of what happened, but two men were dead by dawn and I’d killed one. The other drinkers at the Flag knew neither of them, and I pretended I’d never met them before that night.
I was caught and brought to Millbank, ready to stand trial for the death of a stranger. I mourned Edmund with all my heart and feared for myself, too. A gallows was where I’d end my days, as sure as dawn comes daily. Later, I remembered that three children would grow up without a father and my feelings of guilt and sadness nearly overwhelmed me. But after only one night in the cells, I made up my mind to escape. Others were going to be transported and I knew, as soon as I heard the word, that that was where I had to be: on a ship sailing away from my own execution, as well as everything I wanted never to think of again.
Miss Hayter has come back to tell us we must put away our work. The others have obeyed her and are packing their things. Hattie’s quite close to me on deck, and I’d run away if I could, but she’s talking to me. I’ve managed to keep my distance from her so far, much better than I could have hoped. And she’s said nothing since I left a warning on her pillow. That was weeks ago. I’ve begun to feel almost safe. But she’s going to speak to me, I feel, and I wish I could simply stand up and walk away. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want her to talk to me, but she’s speaking to me and I can’t escape. We are alone and talking.
“She looks happy, don’t you think?” Hattie says. “Do you think she knows he loves her?”
“Maybe,” I say. I bend my head to put my work away and my hair, which is uncovered today, falls forward onto my shoulders. I brush it away with my left hand. Then, not wanting to seem unfriendly, I add, “The captain seems happy, though.” They are the first words I’ve exchanged directly with her for some weeks and I look up at her as I speak. She’s stiff with terror, frozen. She stands, clutching her fabric bag to her breast with her mouth open. She’s not breathing. And in her wide, wide horrified blue gaze, I see it.
She knows who I am. I’ve been recognized. We’ve been on this ship for weeks but only now has she realized who I am. Why now? What did she see now that reminded her of something that happened so many years ago?
39
THEN
Cotton piece: drab ground scattered with a pattern of widely spaced leaves and flowers in black and yellow
5 July 1841
Ninety-one days at sea
KEZIA
Kezia looked at the women sitting around her, each one with her head bent over her work. The last of the day’s sunlight glanced occasionally from a steel needle, but the awning that had been put up to shade the women was no longer really needed in the cooler weather.
Phyllis, Marion and Ann had their shawls tied round them for warmth. Izzy was leaning over to whisper to Rose as usual, and they were having difficulty stifling their laughter. Joan was holding up her work, close to her eyes. Even with her spectacles, her vision was a little clouded.
How many thousands of stitches, Kezia wondered, are there in this coverlet that they’ve made with me? Eighteen women, gathering every day in small groups.
It was easier now to see the shape of what they were making. Smaller sections of the coverlet had been stitched together and now she could see lines of similar color spreading out over the women’s laps: brownish patches and reddish ones next to paler greens and reds. Rows of triangles were sewn to rows of squares. Spotted fabrics lay next to striped, with flowered and plain ones adding variety and contrast. Here and there, a mark still showed where she’d tried to scrub away a bloodstain. Kezia touched a spot that had proved especially difficult to remove.
“You can’t help but leave a mark with blood,” Susan said.
“We’ve done the best we can,” Kezia said. “It won’t be noticed in the whole.”
“So many other colors, no one’ll see,” Izzy agreed. “It looks grand. Never thought it would be as fine as this.”
It would be dark soon, but the sun was emerging fully now, only minutes before it would set. The clouds that had been massing along the western horizon were swept away by the wind. “When you come to the end of your thread,” Kezia told the women, “you may put away your needles.”
Kezia watched as they cut their threads, tucked their needles carefully away and began to stand up and stretch their limbs. Tabitha shook out her fingers, mutterin
g, “Stiff and cold. Feels like my hand’s dead.”
A bird, with wide white wings, suddenly swooped toward the women, cawing and crying, then rising again and making for the rigging. There it settled and looked down on them. Ann muttered, “Bad luck, that is.”
“It’s a bird,” said Kezia. “Nothing more. Let us sing a verse instead of worrying about omens.”
She began the hymn and as she sang, the others joined in:
“A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine.
Who sweeps a room as for thy laws
Makes that and th’ action fine.”
The voices floated up to tangle in the intricacies of the rigging and soar across the huge expanses of the sails. Kezia glanced to where the white bird had perched. There was no sign of it. When the singing was over, she rolled up the coverlet with help from Phyllis and Dora.
The women left behind after Kezia’s departure picked up the bits and pieces of fabric that had fallen to the deck, and put them into the pockets sewn on their skirts. They walked slowly, reluctantly, toward the companionway, leaving behind the glory of a sunset that was marking the sky with wide stripes of apricot and mauve, laying a sheet of molten bronze on the water.