by Sarah Lark
Kathleen, on the other hand, liked talking with Pere. She learned the Maori word for Port Cooper first: Te Whaka-raupo—Harbor of Reeds.
“And they call New Zealand Aotearoa,” she explained to Ian when he visited her for the second time.
During his first visit, she was still completely exhausted from the birth, but now she sat in bed, holding her baby in her arms. She felt almost like the old Kathleen again.
Ian noticed she seemed happier and, if it was even possible, she was even more beautiful. Ian eyed little Sean with an expression that almost bordered on jealousy.
Pere watched Ian with pursed lips. Her English was not perfect, but she read people’s faces like books.
“The great white cloud,” Kathleen continued. “John says it’s supposed to be beautiful. This is just the harbor, just a bay with rocks all around. But the land itself is vast and fertile.”
“What’s so important you have to talk to the smith about it?” Ian asked.
Curt as he was, at least he addressed Kathleen directly this time. He did not seem to consider the Maori woman worthy of asking.
Kathleen shrugged. She wanted to answer amicably that she could learn important information about her new country from just about anyone, but anger seized her. She could not let Ian keep spying on her.
“Well, I am lying in his bed,” she replied, “so I ought to be able to exchange a few words with him.”
Ian glared at her. “You lie in John’s bed with Michael’s baby in your arms. How remarkable you can be proud of that, Kathleen. But it won’t continue like this. If you would listen instead of chattering so, I would already have told you that part of your Te-whaka-whatever now belongs to me. I bought a plot of land and a house.”
With Michael’s money? The question was on the tip of Kathleen’s tongue, but she managed to stop herself. The expression on Ian’s face was already frightening enough; she did not want to antagonize him any more. The news—exciting as it was—heightened her anger.
Her own land! Her own house. She had always wished for that in her dreams. But couldn’t Ian have waited until she could look at it with him? And how could he decide to settle in Port Cooper while beyond it much more extensive, better land might be available?
Kathleen bit her lip. “Ian that’s, that’s lovely, I’m sure. But, but didn’t you think about perhaps buying land elsewhere? Over the mountains? Perhaps it would even have been cheaper. Have you already signed for it?” Surely there was a way they could talk reasonably.
Ian frowned; Kathleen knew that her objections angered him.
“Of course I signed; I don’t need your permission, after all. And of course I thought of everything. I’m not stupid, you know. This here is the only large settlement for a long way. And new settlers come through here. They have to. So it’s the best place for a livestock trader. The only place. I think I can come get you tomorrow, Mary Kathleen. In the meantime, I’ll take our things to the house; then you can make a home of it.”
It was hard for Kathleen to imagine making a home when she could barely stand. The birth after the long sea voyage had drained her more than she had expected. But Pere and John had showed her a great deal of understanding. Tall, strong-as-an-ox John Seeker had simply taken his bedding into the smith shop, and Pere had lain down next to Kathleen. At night, they had whispered to each other and exchanged stories. Pere told little Sean the first fairy tales from his homeland, Aotearoa.
“He needs to know his history,” she had explained to Kathleen. “For us is important; we call pepeha. Everyone can tell in what canoe forefathers come to this country, where settled, what they did. Also, history of ancestors.”
After Ian left in a huff, Kathleen and Pere lay on the bed with Sean between them. Pere said, “Your husband not happy with baby. Why? Is son! Everyone want son.”
Kathleen had learned that pakeha was the Maori word for the white European settlers. Pakeha wahine meant “white woman,” pakeha tane, “white man.” The Maori called themselves “moa hunters.” “Moa” was a bird that had lived on Aotearoa when they had arrived. By now, however, the beast had died out.
Kathleen sighed. She did not know how to answer. But Pere was already speaking again.
“Is maybe from other man? We don’t act so, children welcome. But pakeha . . .”
Kathleen was horrified. Was it so easy to recognize? Would everyone know? Alarmed, she reached for Pere’s arm.
“For God’s sake, Pere, just don’t tell anyone!” Kathleen pleaded. “Please, this child is a Coltrane. I did all I could to give him a name and a father. No one can know that, no one, please! Please don’t even tell John.”
Pere shrugged. “I don’t care. I no tell anyone. But you only gave baby name. Not father. Father is more than name. And your husband is nothing.”
Chapter 5
For three whole days the prisoner believed Lizzie Owens was a proper girl. And Lizzie had never felt happier.
The men from belowdecks recovered slowly from their fevers. Lizzie and the other women still spent many hours washing the sick men, rubbing them with vinegar and gin, and pouring water, tea, and finally some soup into their mouths. To Caroline Bailiff and Anna Portland’s satisfaction, none of the men died under their care. And on the third day, the dark-haired man even managed to smile at Lizzie and call her by her own name rather than Kathleen’s.
“Elizabeth,” he said softly. “You see, I remember. You told me your name when I was sick, and you claimed not to be an angel. But I don’t believe that. You’re an angel all the same. My name is Michael Drury.”
Lizzie smiled, and Michael thought she looked lovely. Until then she had looked nondescript—surely warm-hearted, but unimpressive to him. Now, however, her warm, all-indulgent smile charmed him.
“An angel doesn’t land on a prison ship,” she replied. “Unless it got really lost.”
Michael smiled back and drank a sip of the tea Lizzie handed him. “You said it yourself: an error, doubtless. Why are they sending you to Van Diemen’s Land, Elizabeth?”
“Lizzie,” she corrected him, although she felt flattered. Elizabeth sounded lovely, important, and—good. “I stole some bread,” she admitted. “I was hungry. And you?”
Lizzie’s heart pounded. She had been afraid of the answer—which was why she had thus far avoided asking Mrs. Bailiff, let alone Jeremiah. Michael had been in chains; obviously he counted among the serious criminals. But she could not imagine him as a robber or murderer.
“Three sacks of grain,” said Michael. “Our whole village was hungry.”
Lizzie felt weak with relief. So, he, too, had erred out of need. And to help others.
She smiled happily. “That doesn’t count,” she said. “The judges, they’ve just never been hungry.”
For a few days, Lizzie walked on clouds. Michael was no criminal; he could prove himself and be set free—just like her. As she lay on her pallet at night, she dreamed of such freedom. Fields, a garden, a house—and Michael, who would ask her shyly if she would want to share that with him.
But those were just idle dreams. This Kathleen, whom Michael obviously loved, was still out there somewhere. Kathleen—Lizzie did not want to be jealous, but she felt something like hate for his sweetheart in his homeland. She had cautiously asked, making a joke of being only too eager to know about the girl for whom he had mistaken her. Did they really look so similar?
Lizzie had felt hurt when he responded to this question by laughing. No, of course she had nothing in common with this Kathleen and her locks of gold hair, shining green eyes, and tall form. Michael seemed never to tire of crowing about his girl.
Lizzie could only practice patience. Fine, she could never compete with this charming girl in the flesh. But when one looked at it practically: Kathleen was far away. Michael would never see her again, and someday her image would fade. Lizzie, on the other hand, was in front of him every day—and even if she was not beautiful, Michael was a man. In due time, he would need a woman, a
nd why should Lizzie not be happy for once? Among the deportees were but a few truly beautiful women, and they would quickly be married off.
The master of the ship had decided on the beautiful Velvet for himself. She surrendered to him reluctantly, and her prudish manner seemed to excite him. Velvet would not bother with a prisoner in her new homeland. A free settler or soldier could offer her more—early release and then a large house and servants.
And Michael—Lizzie could already tell that he did not count among the simplest people. He was friendly and smart, and she loved his jokes and his flattery. Yet she also knew from all the time they’d spent talking that he was proud and easily excited. Lizzie now knew why they had chained him up with the serious criminals. Michael Drury would not conform, and if he nevertheless wanted to survive in a system that demanded good conduct and humility from prisoners, he would need a woman who stood by him.
Lizzie did not follow any particular strategy to catch Michael’s eye. She had too often been forced to fool men. She just wanted to be there for Michael, and she wanted only to be good to him. In doing so, she created a predicament. Now when she met Jeremiah on deck and did his bidding, she asked for salt meat and sausage. She claimed it was to fortify the sick men’s food, but in truth, she only brought it to Michael. And to Michael she said, “We get it in payment for taking care of the sick. But you need it more than I.”
The atmosphere between the sick men and the women grew ever more informal. Some of the men were already strong enough to seek their pleasure in the arms of the wilder girls—which caused the number of women prepared to care for the men to increase daily. Lizzie was not the only one to fall in love with one of the young men; the others had also had enough of the relationships of convenience with sailors and guards. Besides, the voyage was approaching its end, and many girls yearned for a man who could perhaps be a support in the new country.
“She is a charming girl,” Michael said to Hank Lauren, one of the other Irishmen from the jail in Wicklow. The guards had moved Hank to Billy Rafferty’s berth when he died, and Hank and Michael had become friendly. “The English are crazy to deport such a nice girl just for stealing a loaf of bread.”
Hank’s laugh boomed. “She might well have stolen some bread,” he said, “but only because she was too lazy just then for the next customer.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Hank? You seem to think every girl’s a whore.”
Renewed laughter ensued, strengthened this time by the sailor whose bunk was on Michael’s other side. “And you like them ones with the halos,” he mocked Michael. “‘Mary Kathleen’—just the way you say it sounds like a prayer.”
“There’s still hope that at least Mary Kathleen is as holy as she made you believe. Little Lizzie here whores herself, though,” teased Hank, who was known throughout Wicklow as a rogue and a pimp.
“And she didn’t exactly start here on the ship,” the sailor added.
Michael looked over at Lizzie, who was just then showing one of the men her warming smile. She cared for the man lovingly, but nothing indicated any interest beyond caring for the sick.
“And how did the two of you come upon this knowledge?” Michael asked reluctantly.
“We’re just not country bumpkins like you,” Hank teased him. “My Lord, you can see it in the way a moll like that moves, the way she touches you—and dare I ask where you think that comes from?” Hank Lauren pointed at the salt meat and hardtack, some of which Michael was just then licking from his fingers. “Extra rations for nursing? Don’t make me laugh.”
“And what do you think she’s doing up here alone on deck almost every night before she takes another quick peek at you?” the sailor asked. “Did she let herself out of the prisoners’ deck? Uh, no, Michael. So Miss Lizzie lets one or two of the guards mount her and then rewards herself with a look in them lovely eyes of yours.”
Michael said nothing, but from then on, he watched Lizzie more alertly. And he did hear her whispering with Jeremiah before coming over to him.
Lizzie was disappointed when Michael only greeted her frostily, employing none of his usual flattery. The day before, he had called her his “evening star” and, smiling, made her pick out a star he would name after her.
Now he limited himself to a “Good evening, Lizzie. Done with work?”
Michael did not say aloud what he knew, nor did he accuse her of anything. Nevertheless, Lizzie cried her eyes out in her berth. Her beautiful dream had dreamed itself out; she had seen it in his eyes. Elizabeth was Lizzie once again; the angel once again the whore.
On a cool morning in July, after a voyage of exactly one hundred and ten days, the Asia dropped anchor in Hobart Harbor. Jeremiah had told Lizzie that it was the middle of winter in Australia, and the island off its coast proved suitably cold and rainy. The master of the ship handed over the prisoners and their papers to the governor of Van Diemen’s Land. Michael did not register any of this; he and the other serious criminals had been taken belowdecks as soon as land was sighted.
“The devils are all better,” the captain had explained to the indignant Mrs. Bailiff. “And if they see land now, that will give them renewed vigor. I’m not about to risk a mutiny a few hours before I’m free of my cargo.”
The women were allowed to watch from the deck as the ship landed. The little town that surrounded the harbor did not seem all that threatening. The buildings looked new and inviting, nothing like a prison.
“The prison is in Port Arthur,” the talkative Jeremiah revealed to the curious Lizzie. “But they only send the serious criminals there. Only those who backslide here in the colonies—the lowest scum. They throw the rest into the work camp, so they’re not nearly as closely watched.”
“And the women?” Lizzie asked, scared.
“There are special accommodations,” Jeremiah said. “But it’s all only supposed to be half as bad.”
Lizzie did not believe his reassurances, but for now she looked out at Hobart. The town lay on the mouth of the Derwent River at the foot of a mountain. It looked cleaner than London, more manageable; the air seemed clearer, despite the rain that obscured her vision. Most importantly, however, this was finally land again. Lizzie felt her anxiety dissipate. She would not have admitted it, but the knowledge that she was sailing across a mighty ocean, miles away from the nearest shore, had frightened her.
The passengers and future settlers were the first ones permitted off the ship. Mrs. Bailiff and Mrs. Smithers said fond farewells to Anna Portland and offered some friendly words for Lizzie and the others who’d helped with the sick men.
It was nearly time to say good-bye to Jeremiah, and Lizzie was relieved on one hand and almost reluctant on the other. She had not loved the guard, and worse, she assumed Michael’s rejection had to do with her relationship with Jeremiah. But he had helped her survive the voyage. Lizzie had needed a protector, and she had paid Jeremiah to be that—with the only currency she had. If Michael could not understand, there was nothing that could help.
Lizzie wiped the tears determinedly from her eyes. Touched, Jeremiah kissed her. He must have thought she was crying for him, and Lizzie let him think that.
“Cascades Female Factory.” A stout, austerely dressed female attendant pointed out the transport’s destination after she had assigned the women into covered wagons with the help of soldiers. Lizzie, Candy, and Anna Portland clung to each other. They had spent such a long time at sea, the ground beneath them seemed to sway. Anna almost fell as she was ushered down the gangplank, and in the wagon, Lizzie felt less steady than she should now that they were on ground. The women could hardly see out from where they sat, but through a tear in the tarpaulin, they caught glimpses of small, clean streets, wooden houses, and red stone buildings.
“All built by prisoners,” said Velvet.
She sounded apathetic. Lizzie wondered if she was missing the captain who had taken her to bed almost every night the past week. Even with his influence it would be a while until Velv
et was released, but as usual, the beautiful black-haired girl did not reveal anything.
The female factory—the workplace of the female prisoners—was built of stone, a complex of extensive, unadorned buildings and cell blocks.
The moment they arrived, the supervisor ordered the women into a waiting room, where they bathed and then received their prison uniforms. Anna Portland sadly tossed her bonnet in with the rest of the clothing the women had worn all those days at sea. As a rule, these articles, which were ragged and filthy after the voyage, were burned.
“Now the hair cutting,” the supervisor ordered—a direction that brought cries of indignation.
Anna watched as her gray-streaked brown hair fell to the ground. Candy sobbed desperately as they cropped her glorious red locks. Even Lizzie cried as a bored guard sheared her long, soft hair. Though her hair wasn’t all that pretty to begin with, it grew slowly, so it would be years before she looked even halfway good again.
Velvet was silent as her thick black tresses fell away, but Lizzie thought she saw a flash of anger behind the stoic gaze of her dark eyes—more feeling than Velvet had shown during the whole voyage.
Anna, Lizzie, Candy, and Velvet occupied a bunkroom along with eight other prisoners. It proved roomy and, like everything else in the female factory, spotlessly clean.
The leader of their block immediately gave a speech about what shape the women’s righteous life would take. Every day, they would pray before starting work and again at night. The prison director led the prayers, while the guards, who were all women, inspected the cells for cleanliness and order. Work began at six and continued until sundown, interrupted only by meals. There were no other breaks.
At last, Anna’s and Lizzie’s work—and Velvet’s relationship to the captain—while they were aboard paid off. The three of them received the status of first-class prisoner, which brought with it a few privileges—not the least of which was that they were employed doing less difficult work. Anna had a post in the infirmary, while Lizzie and Velvet were assigned to the kitchen, where they were hardly supervised.