by Anna Mazzola
• • •
The Minister had gone back to his papers. Without looking at Edmund he said flatly, “The decision I arrived at is the correct one. There has been no miscarriage of justice. The outraged public will not be further outraged by the pardoning of a woman they see as a murderess; Mrs. Fry and her lot will see I have made some adjustment for the woman’s circumstances. Everyone is happy.”
Edmund refrained from saying that Sarah herself was very far from happy.
“You are aware, my lord, that she will be separated from her young son if indeed she is transported.”
“If, my dear sir? If? The matter has been decided and has been approved by His Majesty the King!”
Edmund thought this unlikely. The King, it was said, was far too ill to be able to give any thought to such matters.
“Indeed, and of course Miss Gale is most grateful, but one wonders whether it could at least be agreed that her son should travel with her.”
“On a convict ship? How long does the voyage to New South Wales take these days, Spinks?”
“Approximately five months, my lord.”
“Five months indeed, packed together with criminals of all types. Hardly a fitting environment for a young child.”
“But the alternative may be the workhouse.”
This possibility did not appear to have occurred to Lord Russell. He tutted. “A convict ship or a workhouse. Poor boy. Not that workhouses are quite as awful as Mr. Dickens would have us believe.”
“So you will permit her son to travel with her, my lord?”
Edmund thought of George’s thin little face, his wide blue eyes. He thought with a stab of pain of how Clem would feel were he to be wrenched away from his mother.
The Home Secretary sighed. “I will consider it when I have a spare moment.”
“I have heard,” Edmund said, “that other women have been permitted to take young children with them on the voyage.”
“Other women, Mr. Fleetwood, have not been convicted of concealing a notorious murder! One can hardly imagine she has been a good mother to that child.”
“On the contrary, she is entirely devoted to him and, I believe, has sacrificed much for him.”
“Her reputation, certainly, for he was born out of wedlock, wasn’t he? Now, was that all?”
Edmund hesitated. “Will you publish your decision?”
“The decision, of course, but not the reasons for it. We never do.”
Edmund stood up, considering his words carefully. “If I were to find clear evidence, beyond her own testimony or that of her child, that Miss Gale had concealed the crime of necessity, would that make any difference?”
Lord Russell laughed again, without mirth. “Well, you’re certainly determined. One might almost have thought you were the woman’s advocate rather than an investigator commissioned by the Crown. My advice to you, sir, would be to get on with your criminal practice. It’s a harsh environment out there, is it not?”
• • •
Edmund trudged up the stairs and entered his study to find Morris sitting in his chair with his feet on his desk.
“So, she’s to be boated, is she?”
“Yes, Morris, boated. Within the next week.”
“A lifer an’ all.” He whistled.
“It is highly unjust.”
“Yes, sir. I imagine you would think that. But bear in mind there’s many who cross the herring pond for far less. One of Mr. Chippenham’s clients was sent over for stealing a couple of silver spoons, and only twelve, ’e was.”
“Well, perhaps Mr. Chippenham should have done a better job of defending him.”
“Indeed, sir, indeed. Anyway, time to make some tin.”
“Tin?” Edmund felt tired.
“The needful, the rhino, the ready.”
“Money.”
“Money. You told me to get you some work, and I ’ave just the thing to cheer you up—a tax matter.”
“Fraud?”
“Of a sort, yes.”
Edmund took the bundle of papers that Morris handed him and began to go through them. He could not, however, concentrate on the words. After a time, he looked up.
“The boy with the silver spoons, Morris.”
“What about ’im, Mr. Fleetwood?”
“Did he ever come back?”
Morris tilted his head. “As far as I know, he’s still there,” he said, pointing at the floor.
“In the ground?”
“No, sir. On the other side of the earth.”
30
“What are young women made of?
What are young women made of?
Sugar and spice and all things nice;
That’s what young women are made of.”
—Robert Southey, circa 1820
“The King is dead! Long live the Queen!”
So shouted the newspaper sellers as Edmund made his way up Fleet Street on the way to the prison.
“Alexandrine Victoria proclaimed Queen of England!”
Edmund bought a copy of the Morning Chronicle from a boy of about ten years old, and stopped in a doorway to read the black-bordered front page. For months, the Royal household had maintained that the King was perfectly healthy, although rumors had seeped out of his illness. The article confirmed what Edmund had suspected: that King William would have been far too ill to consider Sarah’s petition. Lord Russell had made the decision on his own.
Edmund looked at the sketch of the new Queen, a small, determined-looking figure. Perhaps he could petition her to keep Sarah in the country.
First, however, he needed to seek support from someone who should have been helping Sarah from the start.
• • •
Newgate’s library was an unpainted, stone-walled room with a high ceiling and a large window that looked onto the inside of the prison. Lining the walls were bookshelves filled with dusty, worn volumes, their titles disintegrating into their spines: prayer books, hymn books, lives of the saints.
The Ordinary sat at a desk, cutting pictures from a thick book with a pair of scissors. He looked up as Edmund approached and then returned to his cutting.
“Mr. Fleetwood. You find me removing dangerous images from our reading materials.”
Standing by the desk, Edmund could see that the book was a medical text and that the pictures that the Ordinary was removing were anatomical drawings and sketches of the human body.
“You think it harmful for prisoners to see representations of the human form?”
The Ordinary scowled. “It is not a matter of thinking; it is a matter of knowing. Remember that I am well acquainted with the nature of these criminals.”
“Yes.” Edmund found himself wondering what the man intended to do with the pictures he was dissecting from the book.
“Can many of the prisoners read?” Edmund asked.
“There are a handful who can read and write tolerably well, but the vast majority are barely literate.”
“Do you attempt to teach them while they are here?”
The Ordinary looked at him incredulously. “And equip them with the means to carry out more pernicious crimes? Certainly not.”
Edmund pressed his lips together. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. I wanted to ask for your assistance.”
“Oh, yes?”
“You may be aware, Reverend, that the Home Secretary has commuted Miss Gale’s sentence, but to transportation.”
The Ordinary did not look up.
“You may also be aware,” Edmund continued, “that Miss Gale has a young son. Four years old. I have requested that the Home Secretary grant permission for George to be able to travel with his mother, but so far that permission has not been granted. I believe it may make a difference if you, as a man of the cloth and of high moral standing, le
nd your support to my request. There is not much time—she is to be taken to the boat in the next few days—so it is important we act quickly.”
The Ordinary stopped his cutting. “It is as I feared,” he said.
Edmund frowned. “And what is it that you feared?”
Dr. Cotton put down his scissors and exhaled. “I have had the privilege of working at Newgate for many years. In that time, I have seen all manner of criminals: the misguided, the deranged, the erring, and the truly evil. There are many in the last category who are women. Clever women. Deceitful women. Women who would make you believe they were made of sugar and spice, but whose flesh is rotting from within, whose souls are as rancid as month-old butter.”
Edmund felt his jaw clench. He knew what was coming.
“She is very clever, your Miss Gale. She knows what to say to convince a man and she has evidently worked her sorcery on you. I assume she has manufactured a story to make you sympathize with her. Stories, Mr. Fleetwood, are dangerous things.” He pointed to the walls around them. “That is precisely why we ensure that there are no stories here: no novels, no fiction. Only clinical texts, religious tracts, and, of course, the Bible.”
Edmund managed to refrain from pointing out that the Bible itself was full of stories, many of them horrible, several involving dismemberment.
The Ordinary continued. “You will permit me to say that I am rather more experienced than you in the ways of the world. I see through Miss Gale as I do all of them. It is not my assistance she needs. It is God’s. And He will only have mercy upon her soul if she confesses to her crime and truly repents.”
Edmund pressed his lips together. “She denies any active involvement in the crime, Dr. Cotton. She was not there.” He separated the words for emphasis.
The Ordinary picked up his scissors again. “Sir, if that is what she still claims, then there is nothing either you or I can do for her. There are some souls that we cannot reach.”
“You refuse to lend your support to my request?”
“Mr. Fleetwood, for the prisoner Gale’s son, his mother being transported is probably the best thing that has happened so far in his sorry little life. One might even say it was an act of God.”
Edmund stood and walked from the room, hearing only the sound of his own footsteps and the slicing of paper.
• • •
Edmund had communicated the Home Secretary’s decision to Rosina by letter the previous day, but she had not replied. He needed to see her. The streets of Covent Garden were dense with people, vehicles, and animals, and by the time Edmund reached Rosina’s house, she was already at the door, on her way out, a basket in one hand. George wore a white cap and patched clothing; she, a pale green print dress and white mantle.
“Miss Farr,” Edmund said. “I must speak with you.”
“We’re just going to the market before it closes,” she told him. “You’ll have to come with us.” She did not smile.
It was after seven o’clock when they reached the market, but it was still busy with people trying to complete their week’s shopping. The steps of Covent Garden theater were covered with heaps of vegetables and fruit—sacks of apples and potatoes, bundles of wilted rhubarb, asparagus, and broccoli. The flagstones were stained green with leaves and petals trodden underfoot. As they walked, George bent down to the pavement and picked up discarded and crushed flower heads, which he stuffed into his pockets.
Rosina made her way from fruit seller to dairyman to baker, feeling fruit for bruises, smelling and tasting the butter before buying, and continually checking that George was still close to her. She did not speak to Edmund and refused to let him carry her basket.
As the light faded, they walked together to a coffee stall at the side of the market and sat on wooden stools among the charcoal smoke. George took the crushed flowers out of his pockets and began to lay them on the table.
Rosina kept her eyes on her coffee and refused to meet Edmund’s gaze.
“I know you must feel that I’ve failed your sister,” he said.
“It’s not you that’s failed her, Mr. Fleetwood.” She held her cup in both hands and Edmund realized that she did so because her hands were shaking. He saw all at once that she was not, as he had thought, angry with him, but trying as best she could to hold herself together.
“You’ve done more for Sarah than anyone else and I’m sure she knows that. It’s just that…” She swallowed. “It’s just that this isn’t how we expected things to play out.”
Edmund shook his head. “That’s my fault. I should have prepared her for the worst. I just thought that…Well, I thought they would listen to me and they didn’t.”
Rosina set down her cup and put her hands up to her eyes to stop the tears.
Edmund felt a wave of sadness wash over him.
“Rosina, I know that things seem desperate, but at least she’ll be out of that hellish place. And there are still steps we can take. First, as I said in my letter, I asked the Home Secretary to give urgent consideration to allowing George—” The boy, hearing his name, looked up, and Edmund stopped himself. “Well, you know what I have asked.”
“You said they did not listen to you.”
“Exactly. That is why I’m here now, or at least that’s part of the reason. I think you should write to the Home Secretary yourself. If you set out in your own words why it is important…why you may not be able to support him…he may have some sympathy. But you must do so at once.”
She gave him a look, which he could not at first read. “Mr. Fleetwood, I’ve already done that.”
“You have?”
“Yes, of course—as soon as I received your letter. I explained how I wouldn’t be able to support him and how he might end up being a burden on the Parish. They might listen to money if they won’t listen to sense.”
He smiled. She was so like her sister: quick as powder.
“There’s also the possibility,” Edmund said, “of submitting a last-minute petition for Sarah’s case to be reconsidered, but I would need some new piece of information. If I could only find some proof that Greenacre threatened her, then I might be able to convince the Home Secretary to look at the matter again. It’s possible that our new Queen may have more fellow feeling with Sarah. If she would take an interest, then we could stop Sarah being taken on that boat.” He looked at Rosina. “Is there nothing you can think of that might help me?”
She held his gaze for several seconds, unblinking. “I can’t say any more than my sister has already told you. If there were anything you could use, she would have mentioned it. You collect those up now, George,” she said, helping him scoop the flowers from the table.
Edmund looked at the child. How much did he understand of what was going on? He hoped, mercifully little.
“You often find presents for your mother, don’t you?” he asked him.
The boy looked at Edmund warily with his large blue eyes.
“Did you dig something up for her once, in the garden?”
George looked first at his aunt and then back to Edmund. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “Some rings and some coins from the fairies. We made them shiny.” He grinned at Edmund, pleased with himself. Edmund smiled sadly back.
31
“Our deeds still travel with us from afar
And what we have been makes us what we are.”
—Middlemarch, George Eliot, 1872
“I tell you, I’d sooner die than go out there and be eaten up by wild animals.”
“Or by the natives. They say they skin white people and boil ’em up in pots.”
As Sarah sat holding her breakfast bowl, she could hear the whispered conversation of the prisoners on the table next to her.
“And that’s assuming you get across. You might die at sea and be thrown into the cold ocean for the fish to nibble out yer eyes.”
; “Oh, hush, Mary! It’s not so bad,” an older woman said. “I’ve had friends go out there and come back in one piece, and with both eyes in their heads.”
In four days, Sarah and twenty other prisoners—“the transports” as they were now known—would be transferred to the ship at Woolwich: the ship that would take them to Australia.
Sarah stared down at her bowl of stirabout: a stodgy mix of oatmeal and Indian meal, and she thought of all the breakfasts she had made for George, of all the times she had spooned food into his mouth, of the times she had given him her own food so that he might not go hungry.
It had been four days since she had learned she was to be transported, but still she could not fully digest the truth of it: she was to leave her sister—her best friend—and her own child. She would never see them again. How had she got it so wrong?
“Surely the food on the boat can’t be any worse than this muck.” Boltwood held up her spoon and turned it over so that the congealed matter dropped back into the bowl with a soft plop.
Since learning that the ship was to board in only a few days, the convict women had talked of little else. In nervous whispers, they speculated as to what might become of them. What would their living quarters be like? How cramped, how damp? Some said that things were much improved in recent years. Others warned that things were still bad enough. It all depended on the boat—whether it was one of the new merchantmen or a creaky old vessel fit for nothing else; it all depended on the winds; it all depended on the captain—whether he stuck by the rules or sold off half of the rations and starved the convicts; it all depended on the crew—whether they were decent types or the sort who would have their way with the women whether they liked it or not. And into this maelstrom, several of the women were bringing young children; one, a baby.
Although Sarah would at that moment have given anything to take George with her, she knew that a convict ship was in fact no place for a child. There was little scurvy these days but there were the other diseases—cholera, dysentery, ship fever. If one convict fell ill, then many of the rest would follow. And then there was the story, told nightly, of the Neva, the convict ship that had gone down in the Bass Strait in ’35, taking almost all of its crew and human cargo with it.