by Beth Camp
“Lower the boat,” cried the first mate. A small longboat was lowered over the side. Three men and the first mate stood in her, tense with excitement. The boat hit the water and tipped in the heavy seas, then righted.
“Kill the blighter,” called a sailor hanging from the side of the ship. “Don’t let that death head follow us.”
Everyone rushed to the bulwarks to watch the longboat chase the shark. Deidre could barely see the men in the small boat. The boat rocked on the top of the waves and then disappeared. It reappeared on the crest of a wave, and the men shouted incomprehensible words back to the ship. Deidre twisted her hands. The men would die before her eyes.
“Not to worry,” said Reverend Baxter. “They'll return safe. These sailors are a superstitious lot. They believe the shark is waiting, you see, for a body, dead or alive. The sailors say the shark will follow the ship until it’s fed.” He cleared his throat. “I mean to say, they believe the shark is an evil omen.”
The first death occurred two days later, as the Brilliant held off the islands of the Canaries. A little girl from steerage died of dysentery. The ship's surgeon wrapped her small body in a white canvas shroud and attached a bag of stones at one end to weigh it down. He held the body balanced on a piece of board over the bulwarks. Her parents stood by while Reverend Baxter read the Burial Service, his voice booming through the ship to all hands assembled. At the words, “Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,” her body slid into the waters below. The mother slumped.
Deidre looked down from the foredeck and wondered if the little girl had been one she’d watched playing. Now the little girl was dead. Deidre no longer wished she were traveling in steerage.
When conditions permitted, Deidre found a corner near their cabin to begin a letter home.
17 August. Dear Father. We have left Portsmouth and have now been at sea for seven days, well on our journey to Van Diemen’s Land. We travel with two other ships, the Mermaid and the Alexander, though they are rarely with us. I write with hope that you and Mother and the girls are well.
Our cabin is quite cozy with four other women and a young girl, Amalie, but I have my own bunk, and the company is agreeable. We’ve shared our stores and eat salty meat with pickles nearly every day. During the day, I read or walk on the little deck near our cabin. At night, we hear fiddles from the emigrants, reminding me of home. The ocean changes every day. So far we’ve not encountered bad storms, yet Reverend Baxter says they’re coming. I will continue this letter until we meet a passing ship.
25 August. We passed the Canary Islands and Mount Pala, the largest mountain I have ever seen. This morning I was up at 6 and had a good walk alone on the forecastle deck, though we still see nothing of the ships that accompany us. It’s now thirty-four days since I left home, and fifteen days since Portsmouth. This afternoon, rain fell, and everyone ran out with buckets, pots, pails, and blankets to soak up this precious gift of fresh water, as it is much sweeter than ship’s water.
30 August. This morning we stopped at the Cape Verde Islands to take on stores and replenish our water. We were allowed off ship briefly, and we gorged on oranges and fresh meat. After we passed the islands, a brisk wind threw our vessel nearly on her side. Many of us were sick, but Doctor Meriwether handed out salt pills. I continue in good health and spirits. The Captain says we are making good progress.
6 September. Today we saw a large albatross following our ship. Some of the men tried unsuccessfully to shoot it. The sailors put lines over to catch fresh fish, which were then boiled into a stew for supper, a welcome change to boiled meat. As the heat continues, the captain ordered wind sails directed into the hatchways to push fresh air below decks to everyone’s gratitude. Last night, lightning marked the skies, and we had scant rain. Often our ship is alone on the sea, and I can only hope the Mermaid and the Alexander continue safely. I do not know if Mac is alive or well, and despite the company I'm traveling with, I feel very far from home. I wonder if I will see Foulksay again but cast off my melancholy thoughts, for the journey is taking me far south, and I have to believe that Mac and I will be reunited somehow.
17 September. Last night Doctor Meriwether told stories about the new stars which have filled the sky. We had our first glimpse of the Southern Cross. Father, I close now with love, for we are approaching a ship sailing north, and Captain Sinclair has promised a packet of letters will be sent over. I send loving thoughts to all of you and pray you continue in good health. Your devoted daughter, Deidre.
CHAPTER 56: THE MERMAID
Mac hurried along the deck of the Mermaid, grateful to be out of the hold. The cries of the men below, some still sick after two months aboard, rang in his ears, and the foul damp air pressed on his face, the stink of too many people in one place. They lost another man yesterday, his body slipped into the sea, anonymous.
This morning, Mac had marked another notch on the wall beside his shelf. He refused to call it a bed. Of 224 original passengers, including the families of the guards in the two cabins above, and adding the eighteen crew members quartered in the forecastle, some ten had been lost to sickness or accident, including four children and one woman.
He was one of the lucky ones, strong enough to help the crew and quick to volunteer. This earned him a little extra food, though the steady diet of sea biscuits and a bowl of potatoes and boiled beef twice a week had kept his body at bare sinew. Even after these weeks at sea, he was grateful to be free of shackles and out of the hold during the day.
The Mermaid lumbered against the wind with shortened sails and a double-reefed foresail, unable to make headway. The ship was sloppy with water. Mac clambered below to work bilge pumps in the front hold. Mac pumped next to Jack, whose sly grin said he had got his precious flint back gambling. Sweating, they worked the bilge pump nearly eye to eye.
“I hate this stinking ship,” said Jack. “Not a drop of grog or a smoke.”
Mac kept his head down. "Nobody should be smoking, Jack. Not even you."
“Ah, I’ll get mine. That stinking mate. I got ways.” Jack stopped pushing his side of the pump and leaned against the sloping side of the ship. He watched Mac. "Go on, work your heart out, you stupid cluck.” Jack slipped a cheroot out of his pocket and turned it over in his hands. He ducked back to pump as the first mate climbed down the ladder.
The next day, ship’s carpenter patched the leak, but Mac continued to climb down into the lowest parts of the ship to work the bilge pumps. Instead of Jack, Menzies worked steadily beside him, bare-shirted and silent. His back was slippery with sweat and scarred over from his flogging on the Thames.
When the wind shifted, the first mate called for the crew to set the topsails. The Mermaid was truly on her way, past Gibraltar, and along the coast of Africa to the Canaries. A dry hot wind blew out of Africa, and the men hung the bedding and their laundry along the lower rigging. Mac couldn’t wait to have dry clothing again.
The rain held off for the next week as the ship slowly dried out. Jack grumbled about the first mate as he pondered his cards at the end of the day and twirled his slender cigar. “Wait until we get to Cape Town,” he said. “Then we’ll find out who’s the better man.”
Menzies looked at Jack. "Why do you want to pick a fight?"
"Do you have to ask? He's always after me." Jack, his face bruised, put his cards face down on the deck and leaned close to Menzies. “When you look at me, do you see a broken down sailor, somebody without a place to go? That’s what the first mate called me, a wastrel and a layabout. As long as I got these,” he shook his cards in Menzies’ face. “I’m a gentleman. And don’t you forget it. They brought me here by force, dragged me right out of Chauncey’s Inn. They should'a sent me to Plymouth. That’s where I belong. Not on this god-forsaken floating prison going to god-forsaken Van Diemen’s Land, for God’s sake.”
“I’m with you, Jack.” Davis fanned his cards. “These pigs don’t know nothing. We’ll get him. By Cape Town.”
"For God's sake, I ha
te the man."
"Settle down, Jack. Play your cards. We got the night.” Davis smiled. The men hunched close on the open deck.
Late the next afternoon, Mac stood in line at supper, his dinner pail empty. Tired after working in the bowels of the ship, he savored the smell of the sea. Curious yellow clouds lay along the horizon, directly in front of the Mermaid, but there was no wind. The ship was becalmed. Now and again he caught a whiff of smoke. They broiling the beef, he thought, and his stomach growled.
“All hands, all hands!" The first mate shrieked. "Fire! Fire below.”
Black dense smoke poured from the forward hold next to the gunroom.
Everyone dropped what they were doing and came running.
“We’re afire,” someone shouted.
“I’ll kill Jack, that son of a bitch,” cried the first mate. “Bucket brigade now!”
Every man grabbed a bucket. Two lines formed immediately. In one line, the men passed buckets filled with sea water down into the hold. In the second line, the men passed the empty pails just as quickly to the bulwarks.
“Faster, men. Faster,” yelled the mate again and again, running along the line.
Mac was in the middle of the line. Salt water splashed around his feet and on the deck, while his heart hammered. He passed the water-filled buckets as fast as he could. His knuckles scraped on the handles, and cold water sloshed on his pants.
Rats streamed out of the hold as the men sent the buckets down, one after the other. Flames shot up from the hold. The men groaned and cried out.
“Fall back,” shouted the first mate.
The first mate climbed up into the rigging with his glass and scanned the sea for either the Alexander or the Brilliant. “Ship on the horizon,” he called down as he quickly slid back to the deck. “Can’t tell which one.”
Where a moment before the sea had been calm, the waves now built to long rows of swells. The sky darkened, and black smoke from the ship billowed up into the clouds.
“Ready the longboats,” Captain Meredith shouted. “Passengers first.”
The sailors swore and lowered the two longboats, bumping and scraping them on the side of the ship. They tied the wives and children of the guards together and lifted them down, their cries and screams lost in the commotion. The crew began throwing barrels and casks overboard, anything that would float.
Transportees gathered on the deck, Mac among them, the stink of fear mingling with sweat as they pushed to see what was happening. The guards and a few sailors climbed monkey-wise down the rope ladders in the fading afternoon light.
"Over you go, men," cried the mate. "Swim, and if you can’t swim, hang on as best you can.”
“Abandon ship,” shouted Captain Meredith, eyeglass clenched in his fist. “The Brilliant's coming. God willing, she'll pick us up.”
Dark plumes of smoke rose up from the ship, carried off by the increasing wind. The overloaded boats nearly swamped in the heavy waves. Men bobbed and swam in the water next to the boats, Mac and Menzies with them. A few clung to the floating casks.
The salt stung Mac's eyes and nose. He swam behind one of the boats and hoped he wouldn’t drown. The men rowed the boats away from the Mermaid. Behind them, the fire spread quickly fore and aft, and the Mermaid’s sails burst into great sheets of flame.
“Mac, I can’t make it,” called Menzies. His face submerged and disappeared beneath the waves.
Mac swam toward Menzies and grabbed his shirt. “Hang on. I’ve got you.”
A series of explosions rang out behind them as the Mermaid’s store of ammunition caught fire.
The Brilliant came in fast, like a giant seabird. Their crew pulled in some of their smaller sails, just as they passed the Mermaid, ablaze with fire, a few hundred yards away. The Brilliant stood by, a fine sight, her white sails catching the last light of the setting sun as clouds moved in. Her crew lowered boats to pick up the men still floating in the ocean, and the boats from the Mermaid rowed to the Brilliant.
The men from the sea were brought aboard, shivering and wet. They lay on the deck under temporary shelters of canvas, covered with rough blankets.
Captain Sinclair ordered the wives and children of the guards to be parceled out among the first class cabins. The crews of the two ships mixed together in the forecastle quarters, and the transportees slept on the deck, apart from steerage for now. Jack and the first mate were missing.
As night fell, Mac watched Captain Meredith pace alone along the deck by the temporary canvas shelters. No one spoke. Only the hiss of the wind in the sails marked the progress of the Brilliant.
CHAPTER 57: THE BRILLIANT
A sailor, his red hair cropped close to avoid lice, stepped over the sleeping bodies on the deck of the Brilliant to nail a notice on the masthead.
“Any chance of work?” asked Mac, sitting up from his blanket on the deck.
The man scratched above his ear and looked at Mac. “Transportee?”
Mac nodded.
“Maybe.” He pointed to the notice. “You read?"
Mac nodded again.
“Read it.”
Mac stood by the masthead. “Anyone caught smoking below decks shall be liable for each offence one month’s confinement and a fine of 2 pounds sterling.”
"Come talk to me, then, after we’ve got this mess straightened away. Ask for First Mate Banks.” His eyes crinkled. “And pass the word. Captain Sinclair don’t want no smoking aboard ship. None.”
The next days passed slowly as Captain Sinclair limited water and cut the daily ration to accommodate the increased load on the Brilliant. The transportees were moved from the deck and locked in the hold. They were kept under heavy guard, allowed out twice daily for exercise, once at dawn and once in the evening.
When the Alexander caught up, Captain Meredith and half of the transportees were transferred to the other ship. Stores were shared between the two ships. Despite protests from the emigrants, the crew built a temporary wall dividing steerage into two sections to accommodate the number of transportees. Those in steerage complained loudly about their newly crowded berths, for they had paid for their passage.
Menzies, Davis, and Mac remained on the Brilliant. Mac was relieved when the manacles were removed and the hold left open during the day, weather permitting. Mac and Menzies made themselves useful whenever and however they could. Banks called them to work nearly every morning.
Mac had just come above decks when he saw her on the foredeck. His heart nearly stopped. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Deidre,” he shouted before he thought. “Over here.”
Deidre turned and peered over the railing.
“Watch it, man. Banks is coming this way,” said Menzies, pulling Mac away from the stairs to the upper deck.
“But it’s Deidre.” Mac struggled against Menzies.
“It’s not worth it, Mac.”
“What’s going on here?” said Banks, his face as red as the hair on his head. “You were supposed to work forward.”
“Sir, nothing, sir,” said Menzies. “We was just . . .”
“’Tis Miss Scott.” Mac interrupted, his heart pounding. He could hardly breathe. “She’s there, on the deck.”
The three men peered up at Deidre, leaning over the railing.
“Mac?” Deidre waved her arms excitedly. “Is that you?”
“What foolishness is this?” Banks scowled and grabbed Mac’s arm. “Do you want to be put in irons?” Banks shoved Mac against the bulwarks. "Are you listening?"
Mac broke free and raced up the ladder.
The first mate shrugged and rubbed his head. “His funeral. I'm going for the captain.”
Menzies leaped halfway up the ladder. "Mac, come back.”
Mac ran along the upper deck and took Deidre into his arms. She was here, next to him, and she smelled glorious. “I can’t believe you’re here. Dougal never said a word.”
“I knew you were on the Mermaid.” Deidre burrowed into Mac’s body and pu
lled back to look at him. “I was so worried when the fire . . . .”
“Hush. You shouldn’t be here.” Mac touched Deidre's face gently.
“Mac, I’m coming to Van Diemen’s Land.”
Mac’s eyes filled with tears. He couldn’t resist any more. He took her in his arms and held her. He could feel her trembling.
“Get off that woman. What are you doing up here?” Reverend Baxter’s voice rang out. “Help! I say, help!” He beat Mac’s back with his walking stick, the spittle flying from his mouth.
“Stop it. Reverend, stop!” cried Deidre. “This is Mr. McDonnell. I told you about him. He was on the Mermaid and escaped that fire somehow.”
“You’re one of the convicts and up on our deck?” The Reverend lifted his walking stick again. “Off! I say off.”
“Stop it, Reverend.” Deidre stepped between Mac and Reverend Baxter. “God has protected him and brought us together.”
Mac edged in front of Deidre.
“Don’t be blasphemous, girl.”
Deidre clung to Mac’s hand. “If we can't be here, I’ll go to steerage.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s saying,” said Mac. For the hundredth time, Mac was ashamed of what he had become. He looked down at her hand, but he couldn’t let go.
“You’re alive,” said Deidre. “We’re going to Van Diemen’s Land. That’s all.”
Captain Sinclair and First Mate Banks came running up the promenade deck.
“What did I tell you?” said Banks. “You can’t be up here.”
“That’s what I said,” sputtered Reverend Baxter. His neck jiggled with outrage. “He won’t listen.”
“Captain Sinclair, I’m so glad you came,” said Deidre. She spoke as if she were in the assembly room. “This is my fiancé from home, a fisherman from the Orkneys. Mr. Malcolm McDonnell. He was on the Mermaid.”
“Yes, Miss Scott, but what is he doing on my promenade deck?”