Toward the Sea of Freedom

by Sarah Lark

A solution did not present itself until the guards dropped an especially high number of dead into the sea. The passengers, naturally, observed the ceremonies. When they ended, Caroline Bailiff, the brave spouse of a retired police officer, offered a suggestion to the captain.

  “Why don’t you have the women take care of them?” she inquired. “True, half of them are good for nothing, and the last thing the poor devils down there need is a whore to finish them off, but there must be a few that have kept some remainder of responsibility and perhaps only faltered once out of necessity. The earlier you select them, the better—for the poor souls down there now, and for the families who will later be looking for servants.”

  Understandably, the future free settlers received this idea well, though the guards still had their doubts.

  The next time the women were allowed to walk around freely, Caroline Bailiff started looking for helpers. The first to volunteer was Anna Portland.

  “D’you really want to do that?” Emma Brewster asked Anna. The old whore had taken the berth left open in Anna and Lizzie’s partition after the frail girl had died. She slept better there than in her previous corner, which she had shared with five very enterprising young girls.

  “Ain’t you had enough of the fellows?” Emma asked. “Me, I don’t look at a prick if I don’t have to, let alone if a man’s going to give me a fever instead of cash.” Emma kept her distance from Caroline Bailiff and the sailors who accompanied her noting the names of the volunteers. “You might just come across one who beat his wife to death.”

  “They’re not all that bad, you know,” Anna said. “Perhaps I’ll save one who stole a bit of food for his children. There are a lot of Irish among them, and the whole world’s talking about their famine.”

  Though Lizzie had never heard anything about the famine herself, she knew that Anna had moved in better circles. Her husband had been an artisan, and she had lived in a proper house. She had been able to feed her children and even buy a newspaper from time to time.

  “Anyway, I can care for the sick; others will have to dress them.” Anna said. She turned to Lizzie. “How about you, Lizzie? Are you coming?”

  Lizzie followed Anna, her heart pounding, into the office Caroline Bailiff had improvised beneath a sunshade. Mrs. Bailiff immediately noted Anna’s neat little hat, which, when it was new, must have resembled her own. Anna’s hat clearly pleased Mrs. Bailiff, but she looked at Lizzie rather skeptically.

  “And what motivates you to care for the men, girl?” she asked Lizzie after Anna had explained her work in the hospital.

  Lizzie shrugged. “I’ve been helping Anna since we got here,” she said. “There’s nothing else to do, after all.”

  Mrs. Bailiff arched her eyebrows. “And have you always taken care of men?” she asked sarcastically. “You do count among the girls who offered, hmm, special cures in the streets of London, don’t you?”

  Lizzie looked at her candidly. “Not by choice!” she said. “Just for money. And really, they were never sick. On the contrary, they were, if anything, too . . . They had rather too much vim, madam.”

  Mrs. Bailiff maintained her straight face, but amusement shone in her eyes.

  “I’ll keep an eye on the girl, madam,” Anna said. “She’s a good girl and quite capable.”

  Lizzie smiled. Her heart swelled. No one had ever said that about her before.

  Mrs. Bailiff asked for some time to think it over, but she was soon prepared to accept any offer. The women weren’t clamoring to undertake nursing duties in exchange for minor improvements in their food and living conditions, or for vague promises of good employment in a house in the new country. After all, most of them had long since seen to improving their living conditions themselves. Some of them had made good friends among the guards or sailors who visited them and brought them supplies; some offered their attentions to anyone interested, in exchange for a bit of salted meat or a few swigs of gin. In any case, hardly any of the women wanted to trade her work as a whore for filth, drudgery, and the risk of contagion. And so, in the end, only four female prisoners and two ladies from the group of future free settlers ventured into the ship’s hold with wash water and gin, the only medicine the ship’s doctor provided.

  Anna Portland and Mrs. Bailiff went straight to work. When they entered the lower deck, they withdrew in horror.

  “It is impossible to work here,” Anna said, not bothering with the formalities of a proper lady. “You cannot see your hand in front of your face, everything is covered in filth, and there’s nothing to do about the heat and damp. Go to the captain, Mrs. Bailiff, and ask that the men be brought on deck. We can care for them there, and the weather is fine.”

  The Asia was on the Indian Ocean. No one had seen land for weeks, but the weather remained good and the seas calm. They didn’t have to reckon with waves that washed over the deck as they did in the Atlantic. A mutiny by the prisoners, which the captain had mentioned to quash the women’s desire to erect a hospital, also seemed unlikely.

  “They might be felons, but at the moment they’re more dead than alive,” Mrs. Bailiff pointed out to him. “And even if they captured the ship, where precisely would they go? All I see is water, water, and more water. I wouldn’t know whether to sail right or left, not to mention I don’t know how to sail. The same is true for those poor devils below, seeing as they come from the darkest corners of Ireland and London.”

  Finally, Captain Roskell relented. He ordered the guards to remove the sick men’s chains and, with the help of the few men who were still able, they carried the sick on deck. The women laid them down on beds of blankets and removed their damp clothing. As Lizzie washed them, she could see how they must have been strong before all this and much handsomer than most of her customers. Of course, now they were emaciated and reeked of sweat and sick, but a few of them . . .

  Lizzie ran her sponge over the chest of a tall, dark-haired man whose square jaw and full lips hinted at his formerly attractive appearance. She flinched when he whispered, “Thank you.”

  “Are you awake?” she asked, astounded. Most of the men she had cared for so far could no longer speak. Two had already died in Anna’s care, likely grateful for some fresh air before their final breaths.

  “No,” whispered the man. “I’m dreaming, dreaming I’m free, that I’ve no more chains to wear, that the sun’s shining on me, and I see an angel. Angels also only exist in dreams. Or am I already dead?”

  Lizzie laughed. “Just open your eyes, and you’ll see I’m no angel,” she said and found herself immediately looking into two eyes, tired and feverish, to be sure, but incredibly blue. When the man looked at her, life stirred within his eyes.

  “Aye,” he sighed. “An angel and a cloud. I was promised a cloud from which I could look down.”

  Then he closed his eyes and sank back into fever dreams again. It did not seem to be going as badly for him as for most of the others, but he needed more fluids.

  She filled a cup with tea and held it to his lips. “Drink. It’s good for you.”

  The man swallowed obediently but seemed to remain in his own world.

  “Kathleen,” he whispered as Lizzie cooled his forehead.

  She did not know why she was disappointed. Of course a man like this had a sweetheart. Or maybe this Kathleen was his wife.

  Michael had held onto consciousness as long as possible, even as his head and limbs began to hurt and the first men around him died. He had only given up when he heard Billy scream. In his fever, the boy seemed plagued by all the devils hell had to offer. At some point, Michael could no longer bear it and willingly slipped off into his own world. He hoped the fever might offer him sweet dreams, but that did not prove true.

  Michael’s pain followed him into unconsciousness. The welts on his back burned and wept, his shoulders and hips were sore to the bone, and the chains caused bloody chafing on his wrists and ankles. Every movement hurt, and it was impossible to find a position in which some part of him was not
in pain. Michael was aware enough to know that he vomited and wet himself, which only worsened his stench, but even if the chains had not held him to his pallet, the strength to get up had long since left him. On top of all of that, he suffered a burning thirst. Though the guards brought them drinking water, no one made the effort to distribute it, let alone hold it to the lips of the feverish men. Michael had tried to gulp something down when the unwilling guards on cleaning duty had emptied pails of seawater over him, but the saltwater made matters worse.

  The noise around him, too, grew ever more infernal, making any thoughts or dreams of better times impossible. The feverish men called for their mothers and their wives; Michael murmured Kathleen’s name. At least, he thought he did. He could not be sure. The only thing he could be sure of was that he would die. There, on an English ship, in his own filth.

  Michael was ashamed of his weakness, but at some point he wept, whimpering just as desperately and helplessly as Billy, whom they had long ago carried away wrapped in sailcloth, ready for his burial at sea. Michael struggled against the image of the hungry sharks tearing apart and devouring his friend—just as they would eventually do to him.

  He resisted desperately when the guards finally removed his chains and directed a few of the other prisoners to carry him away. “I’m not dead yet. I’m not, not yet, not dead.”

  Could it be that they were going to feed him alive to the sharks? Or was he already dead, but instead of ascending to heaven, his soul was trapped in his body?

  In the end, a merciful slap woke him and there was fresh air for him to breathe and a girl washing him. Michael whispered something nice to her, as if to Mary Kathleen. Their shared words allowed him to slip into lovelier dreams, dreams in which it was warm and the wind blew in the fields by the river . . . only here it smelled like salt. And the water tasted bitter.

  Michael coughed when the unsweetened tea washed over his gums.

  “Drink. It’s good for you.”

  Her warm, friendly voice spoke to him. Michael felt her lift his head. The bitter brew slowly ran down his throat. He swallowed obediently. It was liquid, anyway; it would slake his thirst.

  Slowly pouring the tea into the Irish prisoner’s mouth, Lizzie suddenly saw the inflamed red welts on his back and was horrified. The women prisoners at Newgate had occasionally been struck with clubs, but these were the marks of a whipping.

  “Anna!” Lizzie shouted. Someone who understood more about nursing needed to see to this matter.

  Moments later, Anna Portland and Mrs. Bailiff bent over the Irishman’s flayed back.

  “Horrible,” Mrs. Bailiff pronounced. “How medieval. Where does the man come from? Ireland? What a state they must be in. It’s good that you noticed this, child. Go examine the others. These men will surely die of fever and infection if this goes untreated. You’ll help me, won’t you, Mrs. Portland?”

  Lizzie noticed that Mrs. Bailiff no longer talked down to Anna. The two women had recognized their similarity of spirit and treated each other with respect.

  Lizzie reluctantly parted from her patient to check on the others, and she immediately discovered similar injuries on two more men. She returned to the prisoner to comfort him while Anna and Mrs. Bailiff washed his back and treated his wounds with gin.

  He cried out in pain. It was all Lizzie could do not to speak soothingly to the sick man and ask his nurses to be more careful with him. But she held back. Anna and Mrs. Bailiff knew what they were doing. And if she showed even the slightest personal interest in the handsome, dark-haired man with the beguiling eyes, they would doubtless remove him from her care.

  The women tried to wrangle salve from the ship’s doctor. He wasn’t sober but the doctor managed to recall that in earlier times, doctors had spread wood tar over such wounds. Mrs. Bailiff reacted even more violently to this than to the sight of the welts and withdrew into her cabin, only to emerge almost at once with her store of marigold salve.

  “Really, I’d meant to have it for my own medicine chest,” she said regretfully. “Who knows if there’s anything like it in Australia. And until the marigold seeds I brought have sprouted . . . But we need the salve here and now; we can’t just let those poor fellows die like animals.”

  When Lizzie finally dared to return her attention to the young man who had captivated her so, his wounds had been cleaned and bandaged. But he was still suffering from a high fever and shaking all over. Lizzie poured more tea and water into his mouth and brought him another blanket. She would have liked to stay with him, but night was falling, and the guards insisted on taking the imprisoned women back to the tween deck. Mrs. Bailiff and one of the other nurses, a bony, humorless woman named Amanda Smithers, were to continue caring for the men on deck.

  Lizzie did not notice how tired she was until she stretched out on her pallet. But she was to get no rest.

  “Are you back, sweetheart?” whispered Jeremiah.

  He was accompanying Candy, whose turn it had been to retrieve dinner for their group of six. She had a pot filled with a casserole that consisted mostly of potatoes.

  “You must be hungry. But this is nothing. Come with me. Topside I’ve got bread and meat for you,” Jeremiah said with a smile.

  Lizzie’s mouth watered. She knew, however, that Jeremiah’s unwashed body would be on deck for her along with the delicious meal. And Mrs. Bailiff and Mrs. Smithers might see her. It was out of the question.

  Lizzie attempted a seductive but simultaneously bashful smile. “A little later, Jeremiah. Please. When . . .” She tried to blush and even succeeded. “The ladies . . .”

  Jeremiah grinned. “You really are a shy one. You could be mistaken for a virtuous little thing from a good house. But that suits me fine. A little later, then, when the passengers are served dinner.”

  Though the settlers on the Asia were not traveling first-class—as they did on other emigrant ships, where there were luxurious accommodations for high-paying passengers, and animals were brought on board to provide fresh meat for meals—they still gathered in a communal dining room. Naturally, the food set in front of them was far better than that fed to the prisoners. Mrs. Bailiff and Mrs. Smithers would not miss dinner. After their hard work, they were just as hungry as Lizzie and Anna.

  Nevertheless, Lizzie struggled with a pounding heart when Jeremiah led her up the stairs an hour later. Would she really avoid meeting the other women? This was the first time they’d been together on deck at night. The stars sparkled in the sky as Jeremiah satisfied himself with her.

  “The stars look different than in London,” Lizzie said, reluctantly cuddling with him.

  She knew he liked it, and though she could not bring herself to caress him while he was entering her, still she could at least summon a few displays of affection for him before or after. Mostly after—he showed little interest beforehand. And if she applied herself too much, she risked arousing him again. But Lizzie felt she owed it to him. At heart, Jeremiah was a nice fellow.

  “Of course,” he responded proudly, as he always did when he could explain something. “We’re almost on the other side of the globe, you know. The Southern Cross, there, you see it?” He pointed to four shining stars that formed an easily recognizable cross. “The lengthwise line points south. That’s why they call it that. People once needed these constellations to orient themselves at sea. Oh yeah, and the Australians want to put the Southern Cross on their flag—once they decide exactly how that should look.”

  Lizzie nodded and looked into the night sky, fascinated. The stars seemed much brighter here than in London—but of course, that was because the Asia’s deck was dark and there was nothing else around.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered. “So, have you already been to Australia? Is it nice there?”

  Jeremiah shrugged his shoulders. “Well, not yet. But I could stay there. I think about it sometimes. A fellow can get land; I could marry. What do you think, Lizzie? Could you see yourself living like that?”

  Lizzie l
ooked at the young man, taken aback. Was he proposing? Did he really . . . ?

  “But I, I’m imprisoned. I . . .”

  “Oh, I asked around. They’ll pardon you quick if you find a husband. That’s what they want, after all. That you lot all become upright and live virtuously. You do your time, two years in the colony, and then it’d still take a little time. I’d have to work a few short years.” He laughed. “Well, you won’t be running away from me, eh?”

  But on your next trip the next girl would run into you, Lizzie thought soberly. She wondered why none of it excited her anymore. Marry! Become an honest woman. Be free to have children. True, she did not love Jeremiah, but he was good-natured. So far she had not seen him strike the prisoners or even treat them rudely. Marrying him was more than a girl like her could ever dream. And her own land on top of it, a house, even? She was relieved that she did not need to decide right away. Anyway, a few years from now, Jeremiah might well have changed his mind.

  Her thoughts wandered to the dark-haired man with the blue eyes and the flayed back; she simply could not forget him. She hoped she wouldn’t arouse any suspicion when she asked Jeremiah if she might check on the sick men once more before he took her back down to the tween deck.

  As she had hoped, Jeremiah remained in front, away from the section of the deck where the feverish men were located. The guards were just as afraid of contagion as the prisoners. It seemed it hadn’t even occurred to him that he might catch the fever by way of Lizzie.

  She approached the young Irishman’s bed and took fright. He was no longer shivering, or moving at all. Then she realized his eyes were open and he was staring at the starry sky, just as she had been a few minutes before. She suddenly felt connected to him.

  “It’s all so strange, Kathleen,” he said, barely audibly. “Heaven, I thought I’d look down, but I’m looking up into the sky above . . . how strange, Kathleen.”

  “You’re not in heaven,” she whispered, “just almost to Australia. They’re our stars, and look—the moon!”