"Fetch him," he said quietly, "if only to make these ruffians stand down."
"It's awfully quiet out there," said Mrs. Merriwether, looking toward the open doorway that led from the salon to the companionway. "I'm used to hearing the pipes and fiddles of the immigrants on the main deck. I don't like that silence."
"There there," said her husband, Reverend Merriwether, in a tone of comfort that he himself did not feel.
Seeing the distressed look on both their faces, Hannah Conroy said, "I am sure Captain Llewellyn is handling things."
The Merriwethers were a missionary couple on their way to Australia, and Hannah liked the reverend's wife, a plump lady in her fifties, tightly corseted into a blue and white striped gown. Like Hannah, she wore her hair in the fashion of the day—parted in the middle and swept back into a chignon (although the reverend's wife sported old-fashioned and slightly girlish ringlets that quivered over each ear when she spoke).
The Reverend himself was portly, with a pleasant disposition, and a scalp so bald that it was shiny (a deficit, Hannah suspected, that was compensated for by prodigious bushy gray side whiskers).
The Merriwethers had literally rescued Hannah back in London.
Although a formal inquest had ruled Lady Margaret's death as due to natural causes, and although Hannah's father's name had been cleared, things were not the same after that. As much as the local people had loved John Conroy, they feared Lord Falconbridge more. And as the baron and Dr. Willoughby continued to rail against the Quaker for the untimely death of the baroness, the name of Conroy was destroyed forever. Mrs. Endicott, the egg farmer's wife who had asked Hannah to attend her ninth birth, had said, "Sorry, but I've my customers to think of." As if someone named Conroy could spoil all their eggs. Hannah knew that no one would hire her, that Bayfield was no longer her home.
And then she had thought: England is no longer my home. Hannah knew that wherever she went, she would encounter the same class prejudice, and the same narrow-minded thinking that had killed her father. With his final breath he had said, "Thee stands at the threshold of a glorious new world!" And so to a new world Hannah would go. And perhaps, while she was building a new life for herself, she would solve the mystery of John Conroy's other final words, for which Hannah had no explanation: the "truth" about her mother's death, and a mysterious letter she was supposed to read but which she had not been able to find among his belongings.
After burying her father and selling their cottage, Hannah had gone to London to buy passage to Australia, where she had heard the sun shone like gold and opportunities were as vast as the continent itself. But she had discovered that no ship's captain would take on a young, unmarried lady who was not escorted or chaperoned. "You would be a severe distraction for the officers and crew," one captain had declared. "I dare not risk a breakdown in moral order." As Hannah could not afford to hire a lady's companion, she was beginning to despair of leaving Britain when the booking agent found a husband and wife missionary couple traveling to Perth. He had sent a note to the inn where they were staying, inquiring if they wouldn't mind chaperoning a young woman on the voyage. Hannah had then met with the Merriwethers, and they had decided she was a young lady of good character, albeit in reduced circumstances, and had graciously offered to watch out for her welfare aboard ship.
But now, weeks out of Southampton, in the tastefully appointed salon of the Caprica, as three of the four private-cabin passengers tried to pay attention to their midday meal of boiled beef and potatoes, Abigail Merriwether was more concerned about her own welfare than Miss Conroy's. She had not confessed her rising fears to her husband as he would take it as a lack of faith in God, but she could not help it. Each day that brought them closer to Australia brought more dread. What were they doing? Surely they were too old for such an arduous undertaking. Caleb was past his prime but deluded himself into thinking he was a younger, stronger man. We shall perish in that wilderness, Abigail thought, as she smiled at her table companions. And now there was this dreadful contagion to worry about.
The claret sparkled like rubies in crystal glasses. The china and silver on the table caught glints of light as overhead brass lanterns swayed with the roll of the Caprica. The small salon was also used for recreation between meals, with a little round table for cards and backgammon, its oak surface bored with holes to secure drinking glasses. The bulkheads were hung with lithographs of sailing ships and watercolors of pleasant landscapes. The floor was covered with a fine Turkish carpet. Luxury sailing for those who could afford it.
But the three passengers were too nervous to enjoy the meal. They sat in silence, listening to the creak and groan of the ship
After a brief call at the island of Madeira, the Caprica had found fair skies and a forgiving ocean. She was "running before the wind," according to Captain Llewellyn, and therefore was making good time, which meant they should arrive at their destination within the promised four months. It had been pleasant sailing, with the days blending into one another as the lone ship scudded over the sea, sails snapping and billowing, sailors in the yards and rigging, or making repairs, swabbing decks and playing concertinas in the evening. The four cabin passengers spent their days reading, playing cards or chess, or writing in diaries to chronicle the progress of their remarkable journey.
And then Dr. Applewhite had reported an unexpected death among the immigrants. The next day, more had fallen ill to a sudden contagion, so that now the entire ship's company was in the grip of fear. It had been days since those in the salon had heard the pipe and the fiddle on the main deck, where the immigrants spent their days. Although illness and injury were part of any long voyage, nonetheless one person's illness was a major concern as it could spread. Entire ships were known to succumb to devastating illness, to limp into port with only a fraction of their crews and passengers.
"Dr. Applewhite," Reverend Merriwether said, "is there a chance the dysentery will reach us?"
The ship's doctor, a bulky man with ruddy jowls, shared the passengers' table and was the only one eating. He shook his head. "Not a chance, sir. We've all the fresh air up here." Although the salon was situated below the quarterdeck, it had portholes that admitted ocean breezes. Applewhite speared a potato and popped it whole into his mouth, the ship's doctor being a man of appetite, with the paunch and chins to prove it.
Hannah leaned forward in concern, her food cold and neglected. "Mr. Simms told me the latest victim is a child." She did not know the boy's name or who he belonged to in the mass of immigrants traveling in steerage, but the tawny-haired child had become a source of joy every morning as Hannah had watched the families line up on deck before breakfast for roll call by Mister James. She had first noticed the boy at the beginning of the voyage, about six years old in a tattered pullover sweater and short pants, standing at attention for the First Officer's inspection. Someone had fashioned a paper sailor hat for the child, and he wore it proudly as he snapped and held a proper salute, keeping his hand to his forehead during the entire roll call.
Hannah's heart had gone out to the sweet little boy who seemed to her to embody the hope and optimism of the people traveling to the far ends of the earth, and so she had come to seek him out each morning.
But he had not made an appearance in days.
The fourth passenger came into the salon then, filling the doorway with his breadth and height. Hannah looked up to see the broad-shouldered American, Neal Scott, standing there
Mrs. Merriwether turned a hopeful expression to him. "Is everything all right out there, Mr. Scott? It's so frightfully quiet."
"The captain's just having a talk with some passengers," Scott replied as he took his seat at the table. Although his tone was casual, Hannah saw concern in his eyes.
Hannah thought Mr. Scott an attractive man. In his mid-twenties, with dark brown hair and long sideburns that framed his square face, he was a robust man who struck Hannah as more suited to outdoor labors than the cerebral studies of a scientist. His attire was
casual: country tweed trousers and jacket with leather shoulder and elbow patches, a checkered waistcoat and loosely tied cravat. The bowler hat was always cocked at an angle, giving him the appearance of a man on Derby Day.
Although Hannah had made the acquaintance of many young men in the Bayfield area, and then among the male staff at the London Lying-In Hospital, none had affected her the way this man did. She wondered if it was due to his exotic appeal—she had never heard an American accent before, and found his speech intriguing—or perhaps it had more to do with the curious intimacy of ocean travel, being forced into a stranger's close company for months at a time.
The paying passengers occupied four small private compartments below the quarterdeck, and although Hannah had known that Mr. Scott occupied the one next to hers, she had received a shock when she had wakened one night from a nightmare—it was a recurring dream: Hannah locked in the cold library with her father—to hear a muffled voice from the cabin next door, saying, "Are you all right, Miss Conroy?" Hannah had called through the thin wall that it was a nightmare, nothing more, realizing that they must be sleeping next to each other with just a bulkhead separating their berths. Hannah had had difficulty falling asleep after that, knowing that, immediately on the other side of the wall, the handsome American also slept.
Besides being attractive, Mr. Scott possessed an energy and enthusiasm that Hannah found infectious. She had heard that Americans were less reserved than Englishmen, and more inclined to speak their minds, which Mr. Scott most definitely did. A scientist by training and education, with emphasis on geology and the natural sciences, Neal Scott had been hired by the colonial government in Perth to sail on a science vessel that would be surveying the western coast and offshore islands. "That is why I am going to Australia," he had told his fellow travelers the first day at sea, "to uncover mysteries and explore the unknown and to answer such questions as why Australia has animals found nowhere else on earth, and why other animals in the rest of the world are not found here. There are no bears in Australia, no large predatory cats. The entire rest of the world has its lions, tigers, panthers. No such thing exists in Australia. Why? Even the very name Australia comes from the Latin Terra Australis Incognito which means Unknown Southern Land."
Neal now turned to Dr. Applewhite, who was tucking into his boiled beef with gusto, and said, "I believe, doctor, that the captain will be sending for you shortly. Just to take a look below. Nothing urgent," he added, with a quick glance at the others.
"Oh dear," Mrs. Merriwether said, not at all mollified by Mr. Scott's calm demeanor. "What are the symptoms, doctor?" She felt her own pulse, and then laid a hand on her own forehead.
"You have nothing to worry about, my good woman," Applewhite replied as he refilled his wine glass.
When Hannah saw that Mrs. Merriwether was still worried, she laid a hand on the woman's arm and said, "You exhibit none of the signs and symptoms of the flux, Mrs. Merriwether. Your pulse and temperature are quite normal. I believe we are safe here."
Neal Scott was amazed at the effect Hannah Conroy's conciliatory words, her comforting tone, had upon Mrs. Merriwether, who immediately calmed down and decided she should at least taste the claret. The young lady seemed to have an inborn talent for calming the distressed. Miss Conroy also did not seem to recoil from unpleasantness as she had offered Dr. Applewhite assistance down in steerage if he needed it. Not the offer one would expect from a young lady of gentle breeding.
Miss Hannah Conroy, Neal had discovered, was full of surprises. When they first boarded the Caprica, he had thought she was the Merriwethers' daughter. He had been surprised to learn that she was traveling alone. She had further impressed him when she had declared, "It's a ship of dreams, Mr. Scott," when the Caprica set sail and everyone—officers and crew, the four cabin passengers, and the two-hundred-plus immigrants—watched England become a memory. "Every soul on board is sailing to a cherished dream and new beginnings. It is very exciting, Mr. Scott."
"Why did you become a midwife?" Neal had later asked, when they were far out to sea and he had heard the story of her father's passing, how Miss Conroy had sold their cottage and sought passage to the colonies on the other side of the world.
He had heard passion in her voice as she had replied, "When I was eight years old, an injured farmer was brought to our cottage, bleeding and in tremendous pain. Within minutes, my father took away the pain, cleaned up the blood and mended the wound. I was mesmerized. And I thought: I want to do this. But I was told that girls could not become doctors. And then when I was fourteen, a visiting midwife came to Bayfield. A very professional woman who carried a medical bag and did more than just deliver babies, she helped women with their private ailments. Since I could not go to medical school, I realized that I could enter the healing profession through midwifery."
"And why did you choose to go to Australia"
She had looked at him with a steady gaze and said, "I could not stay in England, for it was archaic class divisions that killed my father. I will start my life anew in a land where there are no lords, no men born into a title and privilege they did not earn." Neal decided she must be a strong-minded, independent young lady to travel to the other side of the world on her own. Yet her appearance was deceiving. Her slender figure, poise and grace, her quiet way of speaking, those lovely pale hands and the high forehead over wide, expressive eyes gave Miss Conroy the appearance of a high-born lady with nothing more taxing on her mind that what to tell the cook to serve for dinner.
Such speculation about a young lady was not a habit with Neal Scott. Ever since Annabelle—"You should have told me the truth sooner, Neal. I can never hold my head up in this town again. You have made me a laughingstock."—he had trained himself not to get too interested in a young lady. But because, at the end of this voyage, he was disembarking at Perth while Miss Conroy was continuing on to Adelaide, placing over a thousand miles between them, Neal felt safe lowering his barriers just enough to permit himself to wonder about her.
Why, for example, was she not married? She did not even seem to have a fiancé or a beau. He found that hard to believe. And what of the nightmare that had made her cry out in her sleep one night, waking him, causing him to lie sleepless afterward, troubled that such an engaging young lady should be plagued by bad dreams. Perhaps it had to do with her recently deceased father. Her grey gown, edged at the cuffs, collar and buttons with black piping, and the black lace cap covering her dark hair indicated that she was in mourning (although Neal thought the color suited her, and in fact brought out the lovely grey of her eyes).
A crewman appeared in salon then, informing Dr. Applewhite that one of the immigrants was in serious need of his help.
"Which one is it?" the doctor asked, his mouth full.
"It's the little boy, sir."
Giving his plate a rueful look, the doctor hoisted his bulk out of the groaning chair, pardoned himself, and followed the crewman out.
Deep within the ship's belly, where over two hundred people slept with the stench of vomit and feces, Agnes Ritchie sat in the darkness as she stroked her little Donny's head. He had been so robust and healthy just a few days ago. The doctors back in London had said so.
Because the voyage to Australia was long and hazardous, the weak and undernourished were weeded out during a screening process before the ships even set sail. Small families were preferred, especially those with older children who could get to work once they had landed. Everyone in the colonies was meant to work, from convicts to settlers to soldiers to the bureaucrats. And no one worked harder than Agnes Ritchie, a Scots Presbyterian trained as a seamstress and dressmaker.
A job in Sydney had been arranged for her—at triple the wage she could expect in Glasgow. And her passage was being paid for. She had worried, back in the immigrant depot at the docks where they had all been quarantined until it was time to board the Caprica, that the sudden disappearance of her husband would void her ticket. But the immigration officials had been very
understanding—the lure of jobs and land overseas was strong, they said, until it came time to actually board the ship, and then many folks experienced a change of heart and ran back home. That was what Agnes's Andrew had done, asking her to come with him, and then just leaving when she had said no. He hadn't even tried to take Donny, their son, with him, allowing that the boy would have a better life in Australia than back on their farm that hadn't produced in three years.
The officials had looked into Agnes's case—the pros and cons of a woman on her own traveling with a small child had to be weighed. But when they examined her papers they agreed to let her continue to Sydney because she was a skilled artisan, and such workers were in great demand in the colonies. That, and the fact that she had a healthy child. So Agnes Ritchie had placed herself and her son in God's care and, with their small bundle of possessions, had climbed the gangway of the Caprica.
The first four weeks had been a harrowing time of terrible sea sickness, scalds, burns, broken limbs, and bruising during rough seas. Agnes had stoically accepted it all as God's will, praying day and night that He keep her and her son well. And then contagion had broken out, what everyone was calling "the bloody flux" because of the severe diarrhea. It had started shortly after they stopped at some islands for fresh food. A few fell ill but managed to recover. But then came the first death and burial at sea. After that, the contagion spread so quickly that panic set in. The immigrants grew afraid to go belowdecks, insisting that the open air of the main deck was safer. But even up there, as the men and women had bunked down on the boards, despite the captain's orders that they go below, the contagion continued to spread.
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