The Sea Between

by Thomas, Carol

  Sarah tightened her mouth and reached for another pin. ‘Some people look upon children as a blessing.’

  ‘I’ll remind you of that when you’re in labour,’ Isobel said. Plucking a tea towel from the airing rack, she walked over to Charlotte, picked up one of the pans lying on the wooden drainer, and began to dry it. ‘Where is Captain Steele bound this time?’

  Charlotte continued scrubbing. ‘England.’

  ‘When will he be visiting again?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘D’you have strong feelings for him?’

  ‘I barely know him, Aunt.’ She carried on scrubbing.

  Isobel shook her head. ‘Find yourself a man who’ll cherish you. I’m devilled if I can see how a man can promise to cherish a woman then spend the best part of the year away from her.’

  Charlotte made no comment. She’d already made her mind up what she was going to do if Richard did ask her to write to him, and as it happened she’d reached the same conclusion as her aunt. She liked Richard very much, but the trouble was there was no future with him. Isobel was right: Richard was always at sea.

  ‘John’s calling you, Isobel,’ Sarah said. ‘He must be ready to leave.’

  Charlotte breathed a quiet sigh of relief as Isobel, in a rustle of black silk, hurried off to put on her bonnet and coat. John had agreed to take her to the Drews’ farm, which lay about fifteen miles to the south. Mrs Drew was a supporter of the ‘cause for women’ and Isobel wanted to pass on to her the latest correspondence. Charlotte shuddered to think what Mr Drew would say if he ever found out that his quiet wife, who’d raised ten children and never said boo to a goose, secretly held such radical views. John wouldn’t be very pleased either, if it ever came out what was really in the parcels, neatly done up with brown paper and string, that he periodically delivered to Mrs Drew. He was under the impression they contained books, which was in part true, but that wasn’t all they contained.

  ‘I hope Arthur and Matthew behave themselves,’ Sarah said dubiously. Setting down her mending, she pushed herself to her feet and walked over to the kitchen window, rubbing the small of her back with her knuckles. Pulling the curtain aside, she tapped on the glass and waved to them.

  ‘It was thoughtful of Father to suggest they should go along too,’ Charlotte remarked.

  ‘It was,’ Sarah agreed. Smiling, she let the curtain fall back, returned to the table, and picked up her mending again. ‘Charlotte,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘Yes,’ Charlotte said, reaching for the tea towel.

  ‘If Richard asks you to write to him, I think you ought to.’

  ‘Why? What point is there?’ Charlotte asked.

  Sarah looked up from her mending and frowned. ‘You’re surely not going to take Isobel’s silly advice? I thought you liked Richard. Lorisd knows, you’ve spent enough time with him since he’s been here.’

  ‘I do like him,’ she said. ‘I like him very much. But I don’t want to marry him so there’s no point in my writing to him. I don’t want, and I won’t have, a husband who’s at sea for eleven months out of twelve. I want a husband who’s at home, like Edwin. I know some women don’t mind having a husband who’s away for long periods, but I would mind. Isobel’s right. There’s no point in marrying a man who’s never at home.’

  Sarah slowly raised her brows, the way she did when she strongly disagreed with something. ‘Well it’s your decision, but I think you’re overlooking something. Two things in fact. First, ships don’t necessarily have to go on long voyages. Some ships trade solely up and down the coastline. You seem to be assuming that just because Richard is away for long periods at present he always will be. What you’re forgetting is that he’s had no reason to spend much time ashore.’

  Charlotte’s hazel eyes narrowed thoughtfully. That was something that she hadn’t considered—the possibility that the Nina could carry local cargoes. Coastal trips would still take Richard away from home, but it would be for days rather than months. She could live with that. But would Richard be agreeable?

  ‘He might not want to deal only in local trade,’ she said.

  ‘And then again, he might,’ Sarah returned. ‘If he wants to marry you and if you won’t marry him unless he changes his shipping routes, he may have to consider it.’

  ‘And the second thing?’ Charlotte prompted.

  Sarah gave an amused laugh. ‘I’d have thought that was obvious. Your feelings for him.’

  ‘I like him, Sarah, nothing more,’ she said.

  ‘From what I can see, you like him quite a lot,’ Sarah said. ‘You say you want a husband who’ll be at home with you every night, a husband like Edwin. Well, it won’t be difficult to find such a man, but will you feel for him what you feel for Richard? It’s one thing to have a husband who lies beside you in bed every night, Charlotte, but if you don’t have the right sort of feelings for him you might wish he were at sea.’

  An hour later, when Richard arrived, Sarah’s words were still tumbling around inside Charlotte’s head. She felt all at sixes and sevens, not sure what to do any more. Inside the parlour she could hear Richard talking to Sarah; at any moment he’d be coming into the garden to talk to her. She’d gone there deliberately to wait for him, so they could talk in private. ‘What shall I do?’ she murmured, absently plucking a shiny orange rosehip from its lanky stem. She rolled it between her palms, trying to sort out her thoughts. The question was: if she spurned Richard, would she meet someone else to whom she felt equally attracted? Or would she not? The answer was: she couldn’t be sure. Just as she couldn’t be sure that Richard would agree to shorten his voyages. The latter she could find out, of course, simply by asking him. However, Sarah had been adamant that on no account must she do that. Her advice had been ‘write to him, let his feelings for you grow, and leave any mention of altering his shipping transactions until such time as he proposes marriage to you’. Much as Charlotte could see Sarah’s reasoning, she couldn’t help feeling there was something very underhand about waiting until Richard proposed before she spoke out. She had voiced as much to Sarah, saying she thought she ought to tell Richard where she stood straight away. But as Sarah had rightly pointed out, Richard hadn’t actually asked her to marry him yet, so she could hardly tell him she wouldn’t marry him unless he agreed to this and that.

  When Richard emerged from the house a minute or two later, Charlotte was still undecided about what to do. She blew out a low sigh. Well, what have I to lose by writing to him for a while? she thought. Nothing at all. And perhaps everything to gain.

  Tossing away the rosehip, she went to meet him.

  ‘All ready to leave, I see,’ she said, smiling as they came to a halt in front of each other.

  He smiled back, that slightly crooked wry smile that always made her want to laugh. ‘I was ready to leave an hour ago, but as usual at the last minute my mother insisted on packing half of the pantry into my saddlebags.’

  She laughed again and fell into step with him as he started to walk across the grass towards the fence marking the perimeter of the garden. ‘Are you looking forward to being back at sea?’ she enquired casually.

  ‘In some ways I am,’ he replied, then with a smile added, ‘but in other ways, I’d much sooner stay here. What will you be doing over the next few months, while I’m at sea? How do you normally occupy yourself during the springtime?’ Reaching the fence, he turned around and leaned against the fence post, so that he was facing her.

  She gave an indifferent shrug. ‘I’ll go out riding whenever I can find the time, and when Sarah gives birth to her next child I’ll help to look after Matthew and Arthur. And I’ll probably visit George and Ann for a few days when the weather is more settled.’

  ‘In between riding, looking after your young nephews and visiting, would you have time to pen a letter to me?’

  ‘I think I could probably fit one in,’ she said.

  The next thing she knew he was handing her a piece of paper. ‘This is whe
re to address it to—care of the shipping office. They’ll hold it for me and I’ll collect it when we call into port.’

  She slipped it into the pocket of her dress. ‘Where will you spend Christmas?’ she asked, aware that he wouldn’t be spending it in New Zealand.

  ‘At sea, probably,’ he replied.

  ‘Is that where you usually spend Christmas?’

  ‘Sometimes. Last year I spent Christmas in Southampton.’

  ‘How often do you spend Christmas with your family?’ she quizzed. Not often by the sound of it.

  His reply confirmed her suspicions. ‘In the last ten years, I’ve sat down to Christmas dinner with my parents twice. My parents would prefer it to be more often, of course, but they understand.’

  Well, if you want a wife who understands, you’d better look elsewhere, Charlotte thought. She wasn’t prepared to eat cold turkey on her own eight Christmases out of ten.

  She tugged her thoughts back to the present. ‘You’ve a long ride ahead of you. Will your cargo be loaded and your ship ready to leave when you reach Lyttelton?’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said with feeling. Twisting his head, he looked down the valley in the direction of Christchurch and the port of Lyttelton, then with a sigh pulled his fob watch out of his pocket. The sun was shining on his face, catching his eyes. They were the same deep blue as the cornflowers that would soon be adding a splash of colour to Sarah’s garden.

  ‘Time to go?’ she asked quietly.

  He nodded and dropped the watch back into his pocket. ‘I’m afraid so. I’ve a lot of ground to cover.’ Smiling, he took her in his arms.

  She glanced over his shoulder towards the house. The garden wasn’t the most private place. If someone was standing beside the window in the parlour, they would have a bird’s-eye view of the two of them.

  ‘Does it matter if someone sees us?’ Richard asked, reading her mind. Evidently he didn’t think so, and leaned forward to kiss her. ‘I’ll miss you, Charlotte,’ he said softly.

  I hope you do, she thought. She was hoping he would miss her a great deal.

  ‘I’ll miss you, too,’ she returned honestly and, slipping her arms around his neck, made the most of their last kiss, well aware that it would be more than six months before Richard kissed her again.

  Chapter 6

  They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep. For He commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wits’ end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so He bringeth them unto their desired haven…

  Setting the Bible down on his desk, Richard rested his forehead wearily in his hands. He had just sailed through three days of the worst weather he’d ever experienced and he could identify with every word the psalmist had written. He and his men truly had staggered about on the heaving decks like drunken men, at their wits’ end. Never in his life had he seen such wild seas. As for crying out to the Lord—he’d done a fair bit of that over the past day or two. But his cries had been answered, thank God. An hour ago the boiling seas had at last showed signs of calming, and although his crew were battered and bruised they’d all come through with their lives, and for that he was truly grateful.

  Numb with fatigue, he sat for five or ten minutes, half-dozing, then with an effort forced his eyelids open, closed the Bible, reached for Charlotte’s letter and read through it again. At the last page he smiled, as he did every time he read it.

  …I must tell you about something that happened last Sunday afternoon. I’m sure it will make you smile. As it was too wet for his usual Sunday afternoon stroll, Father had settled into his armchair in the parlour and was reading. I was sitting by the window, mending one of Father’s shirts, and Matthew and Arthur were lying on the hearth rug playing with their wooden fort. After a while I went off to get a drink of water, but I got waylaid by Mrs Hall on my way back, so I was gone for quite some time. When I eventually returned to the parlour, I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw what was going on. I really should have put a stop to it there and then, but I couldn’t resist standing in the doorway and watching for a minute. It was the funniest thing I have ever seen. Father had fallen asleep in his chair and was snoring loudly, which is probably why Matthew and Arthur didn’t hear me coming. The two of them were standing in front of his chair and they were taking turns at holding a little brown feather—the sort that pillows are stuffed with—in front of his mouth. The little monkeys had noticed that every time Father snored he followed it by a big huff as he breathed out, and they had invented a game of holding the feather in front of his mouth then letting go of it just as he huffed so that it floated up into the air. They were giggling fit to burst, and it was all I could do not to laugh myself. I knew I would never be able to keep a solemn face if I went in to tell them off straight away, so I stepped back into the hall and tried to put on a ‘stern aunt’ expression. I was just about ready to go in when all of a sudden there was a terrible outburst. I dashed into the parlour and there was Father, purple as a plum, coughing and retching, and Matthew and Arthur gaping at him in horror. You can perhaps guess what had happened. My father had got the feather stuck in his throat. I suppose at the critical moment he had breathed in instead of out. Anyhow, to cut the rest of the story short, Father eventually managed to cough up the feather, and my two nephews got sent to bed with no supper and smarting backsides.

  Well, I am almost at the end of the sixth page, and since I have told you all there is to tell, I shall end here. Father, Edwin and Sarah send their fondest regards, as always. I pray for you each night, for calm seas and for your safe return.

  Yours affectionately,

  Charlotte

  Dropping the last sheet on to his desk to join the others, he reached for a clean sheet of paper and plucked a pen from the inkstand. Dipping it into the glass inkpot, he began to write, hoping that it might take his mind off his leg, which was throbbing like blazes.

  Monday, 30th March, 1865

  My dearest Charlotte,

  Your letter, along with one from my mother, was waiting for me in Port Elizabeth when we called there to replenish supplies. They made welcome reading, especially yours.

  He reached across to dip the pen into the inkwell again, then looked up as he heard approaching footsteps. They stopped outside his cabin and two sharp raps sounded on the door. Gathering up the sheets of Charlotte’s letter, he pushed them into the drawer then glanced at his fob watch, which was lying on top of his desk. It was just after nine o’clock. ‘Let this not be something that will keep me from my bed,’ he muttered beneath his breath. Tonight would be the first proper night’s sleep he’d had in days.

  ‘Come in,’ he called hoarsely. He’d shouted so much over the past three days to make himself heard above the roar of the wind and sea, that he had all but lost his voice.

  The door swung open a crack and Dan Lithgow’s battered face appeared. He was sporting two black eyes and a very swollen broken nose. ‘Can you come below deck, cap’n?’ he said in thick nasal tones. ‘Some of the cargo’s shifted.’

  With a sigh, Richard scraped back his chair and pushed himself to his feet. ‘Which cargo, Dan?’

  ‘The cast-iron machinery parts—three or four big crates.’

  Richard gave Dan a puzzled look, then said sharply, ‘I checked those crates only yesterday.’ The holding ropes had slackened off and he’d issued orders for them to be tightened up. ‘Who re-roped them?’ Whoever had done it hadn’t done a very good job by the sound of it.

  ‘Nobody did, cap’n,’ Dan admitted apologetically. ‘I told Enoch to do it, but before he could make a start he was summoned on
deck to help secure the sail that was breaking free. It took every man aboard to secure it, as you know, and in the bedlam the crates were overlooked.’

  Richard breathed out a long, weary sigh. Dan was right—it had been bedlam. Men rushing back and forth, hauling on ropes, straining against the fury of the wind, desperately trying to save the blustering sail, while huge seas swept over the decks. It was a miracle no one had been washed over the side. It had taken close on two hours to make the sail fast, by the end of which every man aboard was thoroughly spent, himself included. It was easy to see how the crates had come to be overlooked.

  ‘All right, Dan.’ Richard nodded and limped over to him. ‘No harm done, I expect.’ Save the loss of a few more hours’ sleep.

  ‘How’s the leg, cap’n?’ Dan asked.

  ‘Sore,’ Richard replied. ‘Is there much water in the hold?’

  ‘It’s awash,’ Dan said.

  Richard nodded. It was the answer he’d expected. ‘Who’s manning the pumps?’

  ‘Robert and Enoch.’

  ‘Is the block and tackle below?’

  ‘Aye, and some chains.’

  ‘Good,’ Richard said. Dan was a good man, the best first mate he’d ever had.

  Two hours later, the displaced crates had been successfully manoeuvred back into place and the ship was on an even keel again. One of the pumps, however, was being bloody-minded and refusing to work properly.

  ‘Shall I try dismantling it?’ Tom suggested.

  Richard nodded. ‘I think you’ll have to.’ He glanced down at the water slopping around his boots and mentally ran through his cargo list, assessing how much the load would suffer if the seawater got to it for any length of time.

  While Tom Smith, the ship’s carpenter and general maintenance man, set about taking the pump to pieces, Richard moved over to the wall and leaned against it, taking the weight off his right leg. It was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and every now and again a needle-sharp pain would shoot through it and bring him out in a sweat. He watched Tom for a while, then, giving in to weariness, closed his eyes. He was feeling slightly dizzy, partly from the pain in his leg but mostly from lack of sleep. His thoughts started to drift to Hobart Town, the last port of call before Auckland. Should he anchor there for two nights, perhaps? He’d been planning on stopping for only one, just long enough to take on fresh supplies, but maybe he should make it two nights. The ship was in need of a few minor repairs and the men were in need of a rest. From Auckland it would be on to Lyttelton and…His eyes snapped open and he jumped, sending another sharp pain shooting up his leg, as Tom suddenly exclaimed, ‘Ah, here’s the culprit! A bit of old rag was fouling the pipe.’ With a satisfied grin, he held it out for them to see.