Eight years it taken him to fulfil that promise. Though it was never once forgotten. Eight years in which he’d taught himself not to shudder at the smell of coal dust, or jump at the sound of a door slamming, in crowded rooms to always stand within sight of an open window. He could never have worked on the Thames Tunnel; he knew his limits. But he’d carried churns from Evans the Milk’s cellar countless times. Once or twice, he’d managed to fetch coal from the bunker without betraying himself. With time and maturity, he’d hoped his fear of enclosed spaces was fading.
Wrong. This morning, Rhys knew he was still a coward.
‘Rhys, cariad? Are you in there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve been searching all over for you. You’ve missed breakfast. And the cleaners meeting. We’ve a penny to throw, remember?’
Rhys sighed, lacing his boot. He could manage that now. Though his fingers still felt numb. He crawled to the end of the horsebox and forced his quivering legs to stand. ‘I heard my name called, Siân. I’ll see the surgeon after we’ve thrown the penny.’
‘Arglwydd mawr! Look at you, milk white, chest heaving like a set of bellows. Did you get any sleep last night?’
‘It’s shock, that’s all—wood, dark, like the inside of a cupboard. It’s bringing back memories. I’ll be fine once we get underway.’
‘Fine! Truly? Hold out your hand.’
‘No need. You can throw the penny.’
‘Hold out your hand.’
It jiggled. He couldn’t stop the penny from jiggling. Why wouldn’t his hand stop shaking? He’d taught himself to recover, disguise the signs. Why couldn’t he do so this morning?
Because you’re a coward. Tad’s voice sneered in his head. Can’t face another night on this ship.
Rhys’s fingers curled around the coin on his palm.
‘We don’t have to do this, cariad. It’s too hard. We’ll leave the ship at Gravesend, when the captain and paying passengers board.’
‘Iesu, Siân! Think what you’re saying. To raise our children in London’s low lodging houses, is that what you want? To never know where our next meal is coming from? My pay barely able to cover the rent?’
‘We could go back to Wales. If only you’d swallow your pride. That’s where we belong, Rhys. With our own people, speaking our own tongue. Not in some Seisnig colony, on the other side of the world.’
‘I said no!’
Rhys groped blindly for the white-washed wall of the deckhouse. Of course, he wanted to leave the ship. His every instinct urged him to disembark. But he couldn’t go back to Wales. After all they had been through. How could she even suggest it?
‘What about your birth, Siân? Is your memory that short?’
‘I have your name now, Rhys. No more need for shame.’
‘And the rumours?’
‘Never mind the rumours. You, I’m thinking of. The cost.’
‘Go, then! Go back to Wales! You never wanted to emigrate. I see that now. You were counting on me to fail. Well, I won’t, Siân. Even if this voyage damn near kills me. I haven’t forgotten how ugly those rumours were.’
She gasped, backing away from him, her eyes wide as a fawn. Rhys shoved the coin in his pocket and pushed his way into the crowd. Cost! As if the rumours surrounding her birth hadn’t already cost them. Dear God, even in London there had been whispers. Why couldn’t she see? He was taking her away from all that. Forever. To a place where the worse could never be proven.
A coward can only run so far. Tad’s voice sneered again. In the end he must turn and face his fears.
Tad was right, damn him. Like Jonah, he’d landed inside the belly of a great fish. Well, to avoid one thing, he must face another, it seemed. To win a new life, he must find the courage that had so far eluded him. Please God, he’d manage to do it with a degree of dignity.
Rhys didn’t know how he shoved his way through the crush of people. Or indeed, how much time had passed. Only that he found himself clinging to the base of the fo’c’s’le stairs. People, so many people. All around him, emigrants laughed and cheered, pressing up against him. Sailors dragged lengths of chain along the deck forming them into coils with short iron hooks. A red-faced ship’s officer barked orders, scowling at those who hovered underfoot. Rhys’s eyes found the horsebox. Half an hour, that’s all he needed. A space to settle his thoughts.
No. Time to be strong. A man. He turned his face towards the saloon.
He’d missed the cleaners meeting. But Doctor Roberts might be willing to overlook that in light of his own tardy arrival. Rhys worked his way aft—past the horsebox, boats and deckhouse, the sealed up cover of the cargo hatch. At the main mast, he stopped, eyeing the closed double doors of the saloon. The stern cabins were out of bounds for steerage travellers. The depot master made that clear in his instructions. But the captain and paying passengers hadn’t yet boarded. Doctor Roberts would most likely be alone in his cabin, buried beneath a mountain of paperwork. Rhys’s fingers closed around the penny in his pocket. For some reason he didn’t relish the notion of approaching Doctor Roberts. Something in the surgeon’s clipped no-nonsense tones had brought a shock of recognition earlier. A dull unease in the pit of his belly told him the surgeon was not a friend to him.
He pushed through the saloon doors, heard them close behind with a click. He shivered, resisting the urge to turn, yank the doors open and stumble gasping into the fresh air. No, he wouldn’t run. This was a room, for Crist sake, not a tiny airless cupboard beneath the stairs.
An oak table lay lengthwise across the wood-panelled space. Beyond it, a narrow corridor opened backwards onto a row of cabins. Rhys fixed his eyes on the filtered green light of a porthole and followed the table clockwise, past the sideboard and the steward’s pantry, to where a seam of light threaded beneath one of the foremost cabin doors.
He stopped and knocked. ‘Doctor Roberts?’
No response.
He knocked again, louder. ‘Doctor Roberts, are you in there?’
He heard footsteps, a muttered curse. Something dragged across the cabin floor. The latch lifted. A pair of haughty brown eyes glared out at him.
‘About time, young man. I’ve been waiting over an hour.’
‘Sorry, sir. I ought to have come before this. But my wife’s expecting.’ Rhys swallowed, cursed himself for the lie. ‘It’s been a difficult morning … for both of us.’
Doctor Roberts blinked, shook his head. ‘Wife? Difficult morning!’ He raised an empty tumbler. ‘Over an hour, I’ve waited and, by Christ, I need a refill.’
‘Sorry, sir. Rhys, my name is. Rhys Bevan. I’m here for the cleaners meeting.’
‘Ah!’ Doctor Roberts’ expression cleared. ‘The inconsiderate young man who kept us all waiting.’
‘Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.’
‘It certainly won’t, Mr Bevan. The meeting is over.’
Doctor Roberts swung the door closed. Rhys sprang forward, jammed his foot in the gap. Doctor Roberts stepped backwards. Rhys fell, sprawling into the tiny cabin, his shoulder hitting the desk. The surgeon’s papers fluttered to the floor.
Rhys held his breath, heard a cough, the gyroscopic swirl of his penny on the boards. He reached out a shaking hand. The toe of Doctor Roberts’ red velvet slipper got there ahead of him.
‘You are trespassing.’
‘A second chance, Doctor Roberts. That’s all I’m asking.’
‘First, you keep five good men waiting on what you have correctly described as a difficult morning. Then, you force your way into my cabin. Now, you have the temerity to expect employment.’
Rhys rose, forcing himself to meet the surgeon’s gaze.
Where had he seen this man before? The deep, humourless lines about his mouth were familiar, along with the whisky-soured fug of his breath. But when? In what place? Rhys studied the surgeon’s face. Nothing came. Only a sharp wave of revulsion that made him want to spit, followed by a dread, cold certainty—this man was not what he
seemed.
‘Expecting, my wife is, Doctor Roberts, as I mentioned earlier. I’d appreciate the chance to earn a gratuity.’
‘Your financial embarrassments are of no concern to me.’
‘No?’ Rhys stooped, gathering the scattered papers. Many bore the familiar crest of the Emigration Commission. He laid them on the desk alongside a sheaf of passenger records and a slim volume entitled Instructions for Surgeon’s Superintendents on Emigrant Ships. As far as he could tell, none of the official documents had been marked. A wad of credit notes seemed to have claimed Doctor Roberts’ immediate attention, his blotter bore a criss-cross of tiny calculations. ‘You’ll not have found my replacement yet. Seeing as you’ve been so busy here.’
‘I doubt you can conceive of the responsibilities I am managing.’
Rhys glanced at the blotter. ‘Two hundred and thirty souls, is it, sir? With the possibility of two births en-route? One of which involves my wife and child? Let me see, what would that be—’
‘A hundred and fifteen guineas, Mr Bevan. More than you’ve seen in your lifetime.’
Rhys nodded, indicating the wad of credit notes. ‘Though, not enough to cover your expenses, I’m guessing. That’s why you were late, is it, sir? Needing to conclude your business dealings? Or is it an escape you’re after?’
Doctor Roberts stiffened. ‘You overstep yourself, Welshman.’
‘Not at all, only setting my need in its proper context.’
‘The colony needs labour, Mr Bevan. That’s why you are emigrating. Though your safety is far from guaranteed. Dysentery and typhus thrive in conditions such as steerage, along with measles, mumps and scarlatina. An infection could wipe out your entire family.’
The curl of Doctor Roberts’ lips suggested this would be the desired outcome. ‘Fortunately, Her Majesty’s Government has learned a great deal about the transportation of human cargo in recent years. I have been given authority to impose a rigorous sanitary regime. I intend to exercise that authority, Mr Bevan, and to claim a just reward for my efforts. For that, I will need the best of men. Not upstarts who don’t know their place. Have I made myself clear?’
‘Perfectly. I have the measure of you completely.’
Doctor Roberts lifted the toe of his slipper. ‘Take your penny then, Mr Bevan, seeing as you’re so concerned about your finances.’
‘I’ll not grovel at your feet, Doctor Roberts. No matter how great the authority you wield.’
‘You may regret that, Welshman.’
Rhys shrugged, turning away. ‘Perhaps. But I’ll leave the penny with you, if you don’t mind, seeing as you’ll be overseeing my wife’s confinement. It’ll ease my mind, to know to know I’ve paid a little extra towards your services.’
Chapter 4
Their seasickness started amid the grey-green waters of the Nore. As Alf stood on the main deck and watched the coastal scenery unfold, he saw people’s smiles lose their shape, a whiteness coming into their cheeks. The morning’s chatter faded into an uneasy silence.
Young Bridie was one of the first to take sick. She crawled into her bunk before Lady Sophia had threaded her way through the sandy banks at the mouth of the Thames. Mary followed soon after, along with Pam Griggs who, in between gut-wrenching heaves, held first Billy, then Lucy, as they spewed onto the deck.
‘It’s mind over matter,’ Tom Griggs said, holding out a hawse bucket. ‘As you can see, Pam, I’ve got a cast iron constitution.’
Pam glanced up, scowling, and wiped the spittle from Billy’s lips. ‘More like hot air, if you ask me.’
‘Don’t look at me like that, Pam. I’m only trying to help.’
‘Then do us a favour. Stop your blathering.’
After that, it was like a row of dominos. One by one, Alf watched his fellow travellers fall. Politely at first—dashing for the privy, or reaching for the nearest pot or pan. But their manners didn’t last beyond the hour. By evening, they were heaving and puking the length of steerage.
The high, rolling swell of the channel didn’t help matters. Nor the overnight storm that tossed Lady Sophia like a twig on the waves. Alf lay in his bunk, listening to Bridie’s choked sobs and the empty retch of Mary’s stomach while seawater oozed through the sides of the ship and a witch’s wind shrieked high in the rigging.
When the carpenter came down to light the lamps the following morning, his presence was met by a chorus of groans. As Alf walked the deck offering words of comfort, he saw misery in people’s faces, along with the aching, unasked question: Will it be like this for the whole voyage?
‘Not long,’ he said. ‘Surgery at three bells. Doctor Roberts is bound to have something in his cupboard.’
He stopped beside Bridie’s bed. ‘Are you getting up for surgery, lass?’
‘No!’
‘It won’t last forever. Here, sit up, have some tea.’
‘Go away. I’m dying!’
Alf sighed, turning away. Why was she always so dramatic? Anyone would think she was the only one affected. Still, it was hardly surprising, considering the fancies she’d been raised on. That would change now they had left Covent Garden. No more theatres to invoke her father’s presence, or cellar infused with his memory. The idea of turning her notebook into a voyage log had been an inspiration. Though, it may take time for Bridie’s enthusiasm to match his own. He’d bring her round.
He stooped to rouse Mary. ‘Surgery time, love.’
‘I can’t sit up, Alf. The deck’s spinning.’
‘Nonsense. We’ve got a qualified surgeon on board, compliments of Her Majesty’s Government. We’d not have been able to afford that in Covent Garden, would we, love?’
‘We’d not have needed to if we hadn’t come to sea.’
‘Yes, but think of the benefits. The prosperous new life we’ll have in Port Phillip.’
‘Do me a favour, Alf. Don’t remind me. I’ve enough on my plate this morning.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Let’s get you up then.’
Alf knelt on the bench, tucked his hands under Mary’s shoulders and eased her into a sitting position. She moaned, eyes closed. Alf felt a jerk, saw her throat convulse. A gush of warm bile hit his chest.
Mary’s lips quivered.
‘There, now. Don’t cry.’ Alf laid her back down and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. ‘Doctor Roberts is bound to have a pill or a powder in his cupboard. I’ll bring it back down, shall I?’
The dispensary was a deep, full-length cupboard set into the starboard side of the deckhouse. After Alf had changed his shirt, he helped a line of lesser sufferers drag themselves up the hatchway ladder onto the main deck. He took his place at the end of the queue. Watched traveller after dejected traveller step forward, heard Doctor Roberts’ matter of fact replies.
‘Rest is the only cure, I’m afraid. Yes, I’m sure your wife is suffering. But do take heart. It won’t last forever. She’ll be on her feet in no time.’
At last, it was Alf’s turn to step forward.
‘Ah, Bustle. How are we this morning?’
‘I’m fine but—’
Doctor Roberts held up a gloved hand. ‘Not you too, Bustle. Honestly. I don’t know what people thought. Coming to sea is a wretched affair.’
‘Yes, I see. Suffering is to be expected.’
‘Good man.’ Doctor Roberts clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I knew I could rely on you. A cut above the others, I said, and by Jove, I mean it. You’ll have your work cut out for you, though, Bustle, with so many affected. Still, you’ll have helpers, I expect?’
‘Three, sir. Annie, the lass travelling with my family, is up and dressed this morning. As is Harvey Rolf, one of the other steerage cleaners.’
‘Three! Dear me.’ Doctor Roberts tutted, shaking his head. ‘These winds aren’t helping, coming from the west as they are. Still, at least you’ve got helpers. Three, you said, Bustle. Who’s the other one?’
‘Tom Griggs, one of the married men in my mess. But he’s not a g
reat help. He seems to think seasickness is all in the mind.’
‘I see. Not a consoling attitude. But there’s an element of truth in his supposition. You must keep people’s spirits up, Bustle, along with their fluids, and, it goes without saying, I want the deck sanitised. Cleanliness and order, those are my prescriptions. If you can manage that, people will rally in no time.’
Things hadn’t improved by the following morning. Alf fetched boiling water from the galley. Once the leaves had steeped, he and his helpers carried tepid cups of tea to people lying in their bunks. In between rounds, Alf emptied the privy buckets, swabbed the deck with chloride of lime, and lit the aromatic swinging stoves.
Doctor Roberts held surgery twice daily at the appointed times. But after the first morning, only Rhys struggled up the ladder on to the main deck where he sat, huddled at the bulwarks, rising occasionally to vomit into the sea. Everyone else stayed inert in their bunks, calling down curses on Doctor Roberts’ head while, with their next breath, they implored the Almighty to come to their aid. By evening of the second day, many sobbed aloud, certain their lives would end. When the bell rang for supper, Siân dragged herself upright. Face pale, swaying with fatigue, she produced a waxed packet of leaves.
‘Horehound, Mr Bustle, and ginger. One of my aunt’s favourite remedies. Mix it with black tea and sugar. It’ll settle people’s stomachs.’
The black tea did nothing to disguise the bitter tastes of horehound and ginger. But to Alf’s surprise, people accepted the infusion readily. In many cases, it seemed to be helping, though not in Mary’s. Her skin looked putty grey in the lamplight and felt hot to touch. Maybe he should ask Doctor Roberts to pay her a visit?
No, he mustn’t panic, or jeopardise his position. This was normal, Doctor Roberts said, to be expected.
The gales worsened overnight. The carpenter battened down the hatches and covered the scuttles. Bridie and Annie shrieked in the bunk above. As the ship pitched and shuddered, Mary’s head lolled like a doll’s. Alf held her fast, fearing she would be flung from their bunk.
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