‘What have you named her?’ Ellen asked, eager to hold the child, thinking of how such a short while it had been since she had cradled Annie in her arms.
‘No name yet,’ Almira Brock replied. ‘The Lucy Goodnight had, until today, failed to raise a whale since the day she was born. It invites misfortune to name a child born on a whaler until such an event. Now, thanks to your captain, I can name her. I think it will have to be Patience – don’t you?’ she beamed at them.
So they gammed, and gammed, and gammed some more.
Ellen learned how the whaling wives put in their time crocheting, and scrimshawing whalebones into clothes pegs and decorative ornaments. And she learned of New England, and Boston.
‘Having regard both to learning and commerce, I would place no city in the New World higher,’ the Lucy Goodnight’s petticoat whaler enthused.
‘And the Irish in Boston?’ Ellen ventured.
‘The Irish … Indeed, Mrs Coogan, the wretches – begging your pardon – have landed in their thousands there, pauperized and diseased. And I am sorry to relate there has been much rioting and resistance to their arrival in Boston. But I am sure you will not encounter such difficulties, dear Mrs Coogan,’ she hastened to reassure Ellen. ‘Bostonians are, at the heart, warm, hospitable people.’
Reverend Bonney sat with them, and when, finally, Mrs Brock and her newly named fifteen-barrel baby were ready to leave, he presented her with two bibles.
‘For the salvation of the men,’ he explained.
‘Reverend,’ Almira Brock said to him in her pleasant, no-nonsense way, ‘while Almira Brock, and Patience here, are aboard the Lucy Goodnight, no “wahine” will stand on her timbers. I’ll warrant you that not a man aboard her will get the “ladies fever” before we dock again in New Bedford!’
Ellen was sure Almira Brock would have her way.
The captain’s wife refused the two bibles, causing much fluster to the mild-mannered Reverend. Ellen fought hard to keep back a smile at this interchange between them.
She had a sense that, with women like Almira Brock setting an example for the wives of New England, it would not be too far a day before the South Seas were awash with whole flotillas of sin-empty ‘petticoat whalers’.
Lavelle returned from the Lucy Goodnight, wrinkling his nose. ‘Such a stench!’ he complained. ‘They were flensing the whale. Do you know, Ellen …’he asked mischievously, sensing her distaste at what he was telling her, ‘in the tryworks – this big brick furnace – they have huge cauldrons for turning the blubber into oil – “the stink” they call it, and it is well named! Anyway,’ he continued as she moved away from him, ‘as I was leaving there was a celebration going on – it being some months since they decked a whale …’ Lavelle paused and she moved even further away from him. He was enjoying doing this to her, she knew. ‘And the men were actually throwing dough into these trypots. Can you believe it? They were deep-frying doughnuts in the “stink”!’
Before she could tell him she didn’t want to hear any more, he threw something towards her.
‘Here, I brought you this!’ he laughed.
Involuntarily, her hands went out and caught the soft, greasy object.
Realizing at once what it was, and disgusted by his description of it, she dropped the offending doughnut and chased after Lavelle to reprimand him. But he had anticipated her and was too quick. She arrived just in time to see the door of his cabin close smartly behind him.
Later he came and apologized to her. She was more relaxed about it then, even laughed at the idea of it, though wrinkling up her nose. He sat with her a while, seeing how she had come back into herself since the terrible events of the Coorong. As they chatted, he had to fight back the urge to put his arm round her shoulders. But he knew she would resist, stiffen up and retreat from him. So instead he just continued to talk to her, content, from now on, with her nearness.
He talked of the sea, of the strange sights and places they had seen. She talked of America, telling him what she had learned from Almira Brock about Boston.
And, as they rounded the Horn at the other end of the world, away from its mountains and green valleys, they talked of home.
42
Ellen felt a great surge of excitement rise in her when, finally – having rounded the Horn without event, and pausing for only the briefest of stops at Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro and the West Indies – the Enterprise sailed into the northern Atlantic Ocean.
Now, at last, America was within her reach.
Once she got there, her children would be within touching distance, she felt. Never a day on the long voyage did she forget them. Never a night did she lay down to rest without counting every hair on their heads, every freckle on their faces, every goodnight kiss she had missed. Oh, how much they would have changed! Patrick would be taller, more grown-up, more like Michael. The twins, Katie and Mary, would they have grown more alike or more unalike? She hoped that Mary would fulfil the promise she had shown of coming out of herself more, and, who knows, maybe Katie would have settled down a bit.
She wondered if they were thinking of her. They must be, every day, just as she was of them. For the thousandth time she agonized over the decision she had made, wondering whether they would resent her for deserting them. Pray God nothing had happened to any of them – she’d never forgive herself.
And Annie – how would she tell them of Annie?
Lavelle had been a great source of strength to her. They had discussed the various things they might embark upon in Boston. His ability for looking beyond the immediate, which he had demonstrated previously in planning their escape from Australia, was even further evidenced in these talks. She sensed his growing affection for her, and his attentions, she had to admit, partly pleased her. But his behaviour towards her, if at times a little playful, was always respectful, and he never imposed himself on her. Thrown together in such close proximity, and given his obvious feelings towards her, the temptation to act upon his desires must have been great. But he showed restraint, and, as a result, grew in stature in her eyes.
Her talks with Reverend Bonney had been another source of strength to her. While not revealing the reason why to him, she had, on many instances, brought up the subject of sin and forgiveness. As a result of these discussions she had decided what she must do. But she would not broach it with the Reverend just yet!
Ellen’s recovery had been helped by the other company on board, also. Madame Chabot – petite, refined, demure – often sought Ellen’s companionship, and from her, Ellen learned much about French Canada, its fur and timber trade, and its history. Captain West was always happy to answer her questions, whether they be about Boston and New England, or anything else, from his voluminous knowledge of the world and its ways.
Only Knatchbull remained distanced from them, though he was always polite to her in that superior way of his. The most they could glean from him was that his business in Quebec had to do with the resettlement of Her Majesty’s subjects.
So, before she ever reached the shores of North America, Ellen felt prepared. As if the names and places she had learned about were already known to her.
Yes, she was ready: her mind and body healed. She put her hand to her hair. Nowhere near as long as it had been – yet. But thicker, she thought, more life to it, and attracting much notice from the other passengers because of its colour. Even Reverend Bonney, to her surprise, had remarked: ‘If I may, Mrs Coogan, I must compliment you on your hair – it is indeed your crowning glory!’
She had thanked him, pleased that he had noticed – and that he had not been too retiring to have made the comment.
Yes, she was ready.
43
The Canadian coastline in sight, and just a few days out of Quebec, disaster struck.
The Enterprise, having safely negotiated the hazards of the South Seas, the Horn, the coast of South America, and now almost in its home waters in the Gulf of St Lawrence, was blown on to the rocks of Cape Breton Island, and foundered t
here.
Ellen was in her cabin at the moment of impact, having been driven below by a sudden North Atlantic squall. The force of the collision between the Enterprise and the east coast of Canada knocked her off balance. She heard the crunching sound as the rocks of Cape Breton held their ground, reefing the Enterprise below its waterline.
The next thing she knew her cabin door had crashed open and Lavelle was at her side.
‘Ellen, quick!’ he shouted, alarm all over his face. ‘We’re on the rocks!’ Then he grabbed hold of her, pulling her after him out of the cabin.
‘The sovereigns! I’ve got to get the sovereigns!’ she shouted, trying to break free. Without the sovereigns she was at nothing.
She wrenched free of him as the Enterprise shuddered to a halt. Outside, she heard the bells, and the running, and the shouting, as panic set in. She steadied herself, and grabbed the heavy bag of coins, wrapping its strings about her wrist. If it was going to be lost, then she would be lost with it – but let go of it she would not!
Lavelle ran back and grabbed her again, dragging her up on deck. It was pandemonium: men ran here and there, some trying to lower the sails, Chippy, and a team, vainly trying to plug the great gaping holes in the ship’s hull. Others bailed out the sea-water. Hen-coops and animal pens had sundered their fastings, crashing into the bulwarks and releasing the last of the pigs and chickens to career wildly, adding to the chaos. Only the Enterprise, with the wind still catching its white sails, was static.
Captain West looked panicked, for once, his credo of ‘avoiding troublesome situations’ in shreds about him on the Cape Breton rocks.
‘The boats – lower the boats!’ he ordered. ‘Passengers first!’
‘Ellen, a ship! There’s a ship coming!’ Lavelle shouted. ‘It’s English! It carries the Union Jack!’
As the saving ship approached their boat from downwind, Ellen and Lavelle were hit by the most nauseating of smells emanating from it.
‘It must be a whaler,’ Lavelle called to her. ‘Nothing else could smell so foul!’
But it was not the carcasses of whales that the Dove, out of Liverpool, via Cork, carried. It was human carcasses – over four hundred of them – locked into a hold designed for the transportation of great swards of Canadian wood to a timber-starved Britain, but now carrying fare-paying passengers as ballast on its outward journey. In short, the Dove was a coffin ship.
They were winched aboard, their senses assaulted by the overpowering smell and the wailing, crying, grief and despair rising up to them from the steerage. This was accompanied by a deafening banging, as those still alive sought to escape from the dead and diseased beside them in the crude bunks, or littered on the floor beneath their feet.
The Reverend Bonney went straight to the Dove’s master, Captain McNab. ‘These unfortunates below, Captain-they are in distress.’
‘Well, Reverend,’ the cross-faced captain replied, ‘it’s not of my making. The Colonial Office in London has decreed that “no ship should leave Great Britain empty, with so much surplus population”. So, when we’d dropped our cargo at Liverpool, we were instructed to take on board these starving wretches at Cork for the return journey. But we took on board more than we bargained for, Reverend. We took on typhus as well – and that’s what’s down there!’
‘And have you lost many souls en route, Captain?’ Reverend Bonney enquired, visibly concerned.
‘Ninety, at least, Reverend, with probably the same again diseased,’ the captain replied matter-of-factly, adding, ‘It’s a miracle we haven’t all been fevered!’
‘The situation in Ireland …?’ Ellen interrupted, almost afraid to ask. ‘What way is it this year?’
‘The worst yet, ma’am,’ McNab said bluntly. ‘The blight itself didn’t strike, but the peasants had no money for seedlings. And for fear of blight, others didn’t plant. Disease now kills the Irish as much as starvation. “Black Forty-Seven” they call it,’ the captain explained, confirming her worst fears.
‘And have you members of the Established Church amongst your passengers, Captain?’ Reverend Bonney then enquired anxiously.
‘There could be, Reverend – I don’t know. I expect they’re mostly Roman Catholics.’
‘Well, then,’ the clergyman said, starting to move away, ‘I must go below and find out. My ministry is now with the sick and the dying.’
‘I’m sorry, Reverend, I can’t let you do that,’ the captain said, raising his voice. ‘Those hatches will not be opened until we reach quarantine at Grosse Île. The crew wouldn’t have it. I’ve lost two already to the disease. The last thing I want now is a mutiny!’
‘At least let some fresh air in to them,’ Ellen implored him.
‘Not a chance, ma’am.’ McNab was unshaken by her appeal. ‘The very fumes carry the malady. I’ll not risk it – they stay below!’
And that was it. The Dove, with its live cargo of contagion, drew anchor off Cape Breton Island and set sail for the quarantine station at Grosse Île.
While still in open seas, and before they had reached the mouth of the St Lawrence and Grosse Île, a further four hundred miles upriver, Ellen and Lavelle noticed McNab in a huddle with some of the crew. They watched, knowing there was something afoot. When the group finally dispersed, McNab approached them.
‘Everybody aft for now,’ he ordered. ‘Manoeuvres on ship. Don’t want accidents, do we?’ he explained. Then he herded them ahead of him to the stern.
Once he’d ushered them as far astern as they could go, they turned just in time to see one of the hatches to the steerage as it was being opened. Putrid yellow fumes billowed up from below: a steam of excrement, urine and vomit which had, until now, been trapped below decks with its owners. Next, there emerged a noise like the din of the damned, clamouring to get out of their sulphurous hell. Then a gunshot sounded, warning the damned to stay below.
Reverend Bonney made to go to the helpless souls, but McNab who had pulled the pistol, pointed it at him. ‘I’ll shoot the first of you what makes a move: man, woman, child – or Reverend!’ he threatened.
And so they stood, helpless bystanders, as those below handed their dead up through the hatch. The crew, without touching the corpses, attached grappling hooks to clothing or limbs and hauled the lifeless bodies along the deck, then hoisted them over the side, into the deeps of the ocean. Ellen’s heart was wrenched at the sight, the indignity of it. No coffin, not even a shroud.
Beside her, Reverend Bonney commenced prayers for those so ‘ignominiously departing their mortal coil’. As Ellen watched horror-stricken, one young girl was winched up, held aloft over the side, the movement freeing her hair. The sea breeze caught it for a moment. It was red and rich and long, like Ellen’s, but not yet the growth of fourteen summers. As Ellen looked at her, she thought she saw the girl’s head move, turn towards her.
‘She’s alive! Stop! Stop!’ she shouted at the men.
But it was too late. Before the words were out of Ellen’s mouth, the girl was released and went to her watery grave, her red hair like ribbons of sunlight streaming in her wake.
‘The redhead was dead!’ was the captain’s only comment at Ellen’s cry of horror at what she had witnessed.
‘You could have held the winch,’ Lavelle accused him.
In all, twenty-one bodies were buried at sea. The sheer callousness of it was worse than anything Ellen had experienced on her outward voyage to Australia.
How many of those poor twenty-one souls had been buried alive in the North Atlantic Ocean? One, at least, she was sure.
44
The St Lawrence River was unlike anything Ellen had ever seen. Even the mighty Murray was dwarfed by comparison. Now, as they neared Grosse Île, on the southern banks she saw the muddy beaches of the town of Montmagny. While to the north, Cap Tourmente looked down from high amidst the Laurentian Hills. The St Lawrence, being the main artery not only for the Province of Quebec – or Canada East, as Knatchbull referred to it – but fo
r the entire Canadian interior, was a-bustle with ships of every type. There were sailing ships, converted hulks like themselves, and steamships working the shorter runs along the North American coast. And dotted amongst them, row-boats and scows going back and forth between the islands of Île Aux Coudres and Île Aux Oies, and the shoreline.
The Dove, as required of a ship in contact with contagion, hoisted a blue flag at the fore masthead. She would not be allowed to proceed upriver to timber country until the authorities issued a Certificate of Health and gave permission for her to fly the red flag of clearance. Thus her first port of call was the tiny quarantine island of Grosse Île – only one and a half miles long, half a mile wide – in the middle of the channel.
‘Dammit! We’ll be here for bloody weeks! Just look at that!’ shouted McNab, pointing upriver.
Ellen looked and saw about thirty to forty ships moored in the channel ahead of them.
‘Every one of them has the blue flag, waiting on inspection and clearance. And every God-blasted one of them is ahead of us!’ the captain fumed.
Ellen wondered if all the ships queuing up ahead of them were carrying people from Ireland. If, like the Dove, they all carried the dead and the diseased.
‘Lavelle, it can’t be this bad, can it? There must be thousands on those ships, and this is only one day – one day of “Black Forty-Seven”?’ she asked, willing him not to give the answer he gave.
‘I think we’re only seeing the tip of it,’ he replied. ‘What must it be like back home for them?’ he added, his voice trailing off.
McNab would have chanced bypassing the queue of waiting ships and heading straight for Quebec, had he not noticed the cannon on the high ground of the quarantine island, and the redcoats who manned it. He had no choice but to drop anchor and wait in line.
As the Dove held position, Ellen decided the time had come to broach with the Reverend Bonney the subject she had been thinking about for some time now. It would delay her getting to Boston, maybe getting back to the children. But the needs of these people, her people, were grievous indeed. And she had sinned, sinned against life itself.
The Whitest Flower Page 41