By Fickle Winds Blown
Page 1
BY
FICKLE WINDS
BLOWN
Maryk Lewis
Copyright Maryk Lewis 2014
FREE
The original of the painting by Frederick Tudgay 1841 – 1921 on the cover of this
ebook is the property of the Hocken Library, University of Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand.
All of the characters in this ebook are fictitious, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
For twelve-year-old, nearly thirteen, Jessica Gordon there was little prospect of eventual marriage in 1870’s Ireland. Being the sixth daughter in a large family, there was no money for a dowry, and without that no young man in her class could afford her. The fourth daughter, Sarah, was already sixteen years old, and there was no dowry for her either. An arranged marriage with a settler in the colonies was the best that could be done for her. She was to sail half-way around the world to marry a man she had never met. When Sarah offered to swap her cabin-class ticket for two in steerage, and take her younger sister with her, Jess accepted gladly. The shortage of women in the colonies would offer her the best prospects she could hope for. As they boarded the sailing ship Haldia in the London Docks, Jess little expected what the sisters found aboard that crowded emigrant ship. The friendship and rough humour of both passengers and crew saw them through nearly four months of being buffeted about by every wind that blew.
For Shirley
ePub format ISBN 978-0-473-30210-8
Kindle/Mobi format ISBN 978-0-473-30211-5
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
One
The sisters, Sarah and Jess Gordon, struggled down to the docks quite late in the day. It all looked bleak, rather foggy, and uninviting, but they didn’t know where else to go. Heavy wooden breastworks boxed in a square basin of scummy water, the size of a football field. There were lock-gates blocking off a channel which led out to the river. All around were dark buildings, great warehouses, their brickwork black with soot.
They were three days early. Embarkation was set for Thursday.
Alongside the nearest quay, lower than the quay, lay their ship, a three-masted sailing vessel, the ‘Haldia’, just where they were told it would be.
Jess, the younger sister, looked at it worriedly. “It looks awfully small for three hundred people.”
As they drew closer, the girls looked up at the mastheads rearing far above them, and their heads tilted further and further back. At least the masts were big. The grey clouds scudding overhead were hardly any higher.
“You’ll fall in, lassies, if you don’t look where you’re going,” a gruff voice called. “It isn’t bath night yet, you know.”
There was a man on the ship, a burly, bearded man in a hooded, canvas sea jacket. He was standing near the gangway, looking up at them, the only person in sight.
“It’s a wonder those masts don’t make the ship fall over,” Sarah, the other sister, commented to him in a soft Gaelic lilt. She lowered her kitbag to the ground with relief. “Do you have to climb away up there?”
“Aye lass, but they won’t expect you to do it,” the man said with a grin. “Not today anyway. In fact you shouldn’t even be on the docks today at all now, should you?”
“The man on the gates let us in when he saw we had tickets,” Sarah explained.
“Did he now? Then he shouldn’t have. We’ll not be embarking passengers until Thursday.”
“We know,” Sarah admitted, “but we’ve nowhere else to go, and our money’s run out.”
“We’ve only got four pence left,” Jess added, sounding somewhat puffed. She was just a little thing, her head hardly reaching to her sister’s shoulder. The cabin bag she was lugging was far too heavy for her.
“You wait there,” the sailor told them, not unkindly. “Mr MacGovern’s aboard, our second mate. You can talk to him, though it may not do you much good.”
Shortly they heard him calling down a companionway, “Two young ladies, sir, on the dock. They’d like a word with you.”
“Send them away!” a muffled voice shouted back. “You know what the owners think about doxies on board. Who let them on the dock anyway?”
“They’re not that sort, sir. They’re ladies, sir. Passengers. They’ve got tickets.”
“They shouldn’t be here, Bo’s’n, not today,” the voice came more plainly as a dark, solidly-built, young man emerged onto the deck. He wore a peaked cap which shaded his eyes, and made his unshaven face look even more whiskery. He sounded annoyed.
When his gaze lit on Sarah, standing on the quay above him, MacGovern caught his breath and his demeanour softened considerably. She had that effect on most men. Tall, her long brown hair cascaded from under her bonnet and down her back, held in place with a green ribbon at the neck. As she turned towards him, the smooth line of her cheek was outlined against the drab wall behind her.
“We’re in need of shelter, sir,” she said, her large blue eyes looking directly into his brown ones. “Would you have my little sister and me adrift in the docklands?”
“No...er, no, miss,” he agreed. “It’s hardly a suitable place for young ladies. You’re a mite young for these surroundings.” The smaller one, a waif with her fair hair in plaits, certainly looked it, though perhaps it might not be true of that other delicious creature.
“I’m sixteen, sir, and engaged to be married,” Sarah replied stiffly.
“I’m eleven,” Jess piped up.
“Quite so...yes, I’m sure,” MacGovern huffed. “Still, this is no place for you to be.”
“Then can you suggest where we might go?”
“We’re not allowed to have you on here, miss. The owners won’t allow it. It’s the insurance, you see. There’s no insurance on passengers till embarkation time.”
“There’s no insurance on us standing here either,” Sarah replied.
“No, miss, but that’s not our fault. Can you not find lodgings until Thursday?”
“As we said to your Bo’s’n, here, our money’s run out. We’ve only four pence left. Everything coming here, the coach fares, the lodgings, has all cost more than we were told.”
“Where have you come from?” he asked, not that he wanted to know, but he couldn’t think what else to say to them.
“From County Fermanagh in Ireland.”
“You sound more Scots.”
“Aye, well they say we do in that part. There’s many Scots folk there...too many. That’s maybe why some of us need to leave,” Sarah sighed.
“And your man? Your betrothed? Where is he?”
“I’ll meet him in New Zealand. He sent the fare for me to go to him.”
“It’s a pity he’s not here to take care of you now,” MacGovern complained.
“Er, perhaps Mr Smithers might have a suggestion, sir,” the boatswain ventured.
“Yes. Thank you Bo’s’n,” MacGovern brightened perceptibly. “I’ll take you round there, ladies. You can leave your baggage here.”
“I’ll take care of it ladies,” the boatsw
ain offered, and was thanked prettily.
“Who’s Mr Smithers?” Jess asked, as MacGovern climbed the gang plank to join them on the quay.
“He’s the Dispatching Official, the man in charge of putting the emigrants aboard all the various ships. He has to agree that our ship is suitable for them before we can sail. His main office is up in Westminster, but I know that he’s down here in the dock office at the moment. Our schoolmaster has to meet him there for an interview. There’s a problem with the schoolmaster, to say nothing of several other things which have gone wrong.”
Second Officer MacGovern led them along the quay, and through a gap between the buildings, heading toward the river. It looked dreary and wintry out there, poor weather even for November. Barges under sail were beating against the current, taking cargoes of coal up the Thames to feed all the thousands of fires that made London’s air so thick with smut. A small steamer, smoke pouring from its stack, surged busily past them. It would be good to get to sea, out into the fresh air again.
In the outer room of the dock office, a small clapboard building standing by itself, a man and two small children sat forlornly on a bench against the wall. There was nobody behind the counter.
Politely, the man stood to his feet when he saw Sarah. He didn’t look like a schoolmaster, not really; studious perhaps, neat sandy hair cut short, but surely he was another sailor, lean and weather-beaten. His winged collar and thin tie seemed out of place on a man with hands which looked more suited to pulling ropes, and swinging on oars.
“Mr Inkster, is it?” MacGovern asked, and on receiving a nod, “Where’s Mr Smithers?”
“He has another ship in the South West India Dock,” Inkster replied. “They’re about to put out into