Scatterheart

by Lili Wilkinson

  ‘You!’ said Hannah.

  The crippled girl with the melted face clambered down from her bunk. ‘Any more king’s pictures, miss?’

  Hannah scowled at her. ‘You robbed me! It’s your fault I’m here!’

  The little girl grinned and Hannah clenched her fists.

  ‘Stay them fightin’ claws,’ said Long Meg, looking amused. ‘Ain’t no use brawlin’ over spilt broth.’ She chuckled at her joke, then looked at the girl and made a face. ‘What happened to you, then? You’re as ugly as a pig’s arse.’

  The girl shrugged. ‘Polly put the kettle on,’ she said softly. ‘Molly took it off again.’

  Long Meg nodded. ‘Scalded,’ she said. ‘Poor thing. Your name’s Molly?’

  The little girl shrugged again. Then she giggled and scampered down the passageway out of sight.

  Hannah got down on all fours to pick up the lump of meat. It had gone.

  ‘Little monster! She stole my breakfast!’

  Long Meg roared with laughter.

  Molly was not the only familiar face on board the Derby Ram. Hannah recognised a number of women from her cell in Newgate, including Tabby, the crazy old Scots woman, and the pregnant woman Sally, who suffered terrible seasickness and rarely left her bed.

  After the morning meal, Hannah made her way onto the upper deck, to stare again at the vast expanse of ocean. One of the sailors whistled at her as she walked past, and she looked around to find a less-crowded area.

  There were two higher decks towards the back of the ship, but they were swarming with important-looking officers in blue coats, so she headed towards the front, where a smaller deck rose above her. She climbed up the steps, passing the bell that rang at meal-times.

  One of the ship’s three masts sprouted from the decking, rising above her so high it seemed to touch the sky.

  There were two cannons on either side of the deck. Hannah stood between them, looking at the wide open ocean. The front of the ship cut smoothly through the water. The wind was strong and fresh. It was exhilarating.

  She turned her back to the ocean and watched the men working on the ship. There were women on the upper deck too, bent over piles of what looked like rope-ends. Lieutenant James Belforte was standing on the highest deck at the back of the ship, talking to a tall man wearing black. The man had his back to Hannah, so she could not see his face. James tipped his straw hat again when he saw Hannah.

  She sat down, leaning against the sun-warmed timbers of the ship, and watched him. A chimney in the middle of the deck was emitting some very appealing smells. Hannah realised that she was sitting above the Mess, and that she could smell food cooking. Thinking of the gristly lump of meat they’d had for breakfast, she wondered if the officers ate different food to the convicts.

  After some time had passed, a man in an officer’s uniform standing near James raised a silver whistle to his lips and blew a series of high pitched notes. The sailors all abandoned what they were doing, and scattered about the ship, some going down into the ship, others spreading out in the sunshine, playing cards and dice. A new wave of men emerged from various parts of the ship to take their places. A man wearing the black knee-breeches and crisp white shirt of an officer, but with no jacket or hat, emerged from the rooms at the back of the second-highest deck. He had grey hair that was neatly pulled back into a ponytail.

  James climbed down the stairs to the next deck, where he paused to speak to the man with the grey ponytail. Hannah watched them, curious. Even though the man was not dressed like an officer of high rank, James seemed to be deferring to him, and saluted him as he turned to leave.

  Hannah looked up again at the man in black. He turned. His face was grey and spotted with pustules. It was Death. Hannah remembered his icy hands on her forehead on the quay before boarding the Derby Ram. She felt cold, despite the sunshine. He was walking towards her. To Hannah it was as if he wasn’t walking at all, but gliding. Slithering. She squinted, trying to make out his face. It wasn’t Death. It couldn’t be.

  ‘Hello, there.’

  Hannah looked up. James was smiling at her. She looked back, but the man in black was gone.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked James.

  ‘You startled me, is all.’ She returned his smile when she could no longer hear her heartbeat. ‘Who is that man?’

  ‘The ship’s doctor,’ he said. ‘His name is Ullathorne.’

  He sat down beside her. He smelled like cedarwood and violets. It reminded Hannah of her father. ‘Making yourself at home?’ asked James.

  Hannah nodded. ‘It’s lovely up here. So bright and fresh.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said James, stretching in the sunlight and yawning. ‘But I’d rather be at White’s playing hazard.’

  White’s had been Arthur Cheshire’s favourite club, too. Hannah felt a surge of fondness towards James Belforte. He was like a little part of home.

  He took off his straw hat and rubbed the top of his head with the palm of his hand. Hannah chanced a sideways look at him. His skin was alabaster-pale, his cheeks so perfectly blushed that Hannah couldn’t believe he wasn’t wearing rouge. He caught her glance, and she looked away.

  ‘Who were you talking to, before, on the officer’s deck?’ she asked.

  James glanced over to the other side of the ship, where the man with the grey ponytail was now talking to another officer.

  ‘That’s Captain Gartside,’ he said.

  ‘He’s the Captain?’ she asked. ‘He doesn’t look very Captain-ish.’

  ‘He says he finds the full uniform too constrictive.’ James leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘He’s a commoner. Distinguished himself in the war, and was promoted to Captain. But he isn’t a gentleman. Still thinks he’s just one of the sailors. He even sleeps in a hammock.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Only the sailors sleep in hammocks,’ explained James. ‘They say it helps with seasickness.’

  ‘But you don’t sleep in one?’ asked Hannah, then caught herself – she couldn’t believe she’d just asked about a gentleman’s sleeping arrangements.

  James shook his head. ‘Officers have proper beds. It’s more civilised.’

  There was a pause, where Hannah tried to think of something else to say.

  ‘Why aren’t you still on the officer’s deck?’ she asked.

  James smiled. ‘Just checking up on the welfare of our cargo. And it isn’t called the officer’s deck. It’s the quarterdeck. The one above it is the poop deck. This one we’re sitting on is the fo’c’stle, or forecastle.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hannah again, trying to sound like she understood.

  James chuckled. The whistle blew again, and he sighed. ‘Back to work.’

  Hannah watched him leave. He moved gracefully with the rhythm of the ship.

  ‘Far fowls have fair feathers,’ said a voice. Hannah jumped to her feet and looked around.

  It was Tabby. She had been hiding behind the mast, but came over to Hannah and stood hunched over to nearly half Hannah’s height. Hannah remembered the dream where Tabby had turned into a crow and she had plummeted out of the sky.

  ‘You frightened me,’ said Hannah.

  Tabby licked her bare gums. ‘Soon ripe, soon rotten.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ said Hannah, all of a sudden feeling defensive and angry. ‘Everyone on this ship is mad.’

  Tabby blinked. ‘Mad? Mad as Tom o’ Bedlam? Or shamming Abram? No. Not mad. But a fool may give a wise man counsel.’

  Hannah put her hands on her hips. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘What counsel do you give me, then?’

  ‘Not counsel. A warning.’ She was staring at a fly that had alighted on the ship’s rail.

  ‘Well?’ said Hannah impatiently. ‘What is your warning?’

  Tabby turned back to look at her, her black eyes glittering. ‘Blaw the wind nere so saft, it will lowen at the last.’

  Hannah stared at her. ‘I don’t understand a word you say.’

&
nbsp; Tabby’s hand flew out so fast that Hannah barely saw it move. But she did see the wizened and gnarled old fingers grasping the struggling fly, and she heard the smacking of the old woman’s lips. She turned away in disgust.

  ‘Be ye so eager to flee the past?’ asked Tabby. ‘Bears have the longest memories, ye ken. Longer than elephants.’

  Tabby sauntered off, leaving Hannah thinking of the white bear.

  She heard a step behind her, and turned to watch a boy no more than twelve years old climb the stairs to the forecastle and walk past, ignoring her completely. He went to the very front of the ship and raised a spyglass to his eye. He was dressed in an officer’s uniform that seemed too large. His head was almost swallowed up by his bicorn hat.

  ‘Hello there,’ Hannah said, smiling. ‘Are you here with your father? Do you want to be a sailor when you grow up?’

  The boy lowered the spyglass and turned to face Hannah, his expression cold.

  ‘I am Second Lieutenant Robert Bracegirdle,’ he said in a high, reedy voice. ‘Please return yourself to the prisoners’ quarters.’

  Hannah swallowed, staring at the boy.

  ‘Now, woman!’ he yelled, his voice cracking. ‘Or you will face discipline!’

  twelve

  ‘Your father’s house?’ asked the old woman, and shrugged. ‘All I know,’ she said, ‘is that you’ll get there too late or never. But maybe my neighbour can help you. And you’re welcome to this copper acorn.’

  ***

  It didn’t take long for the ship to settle into a routine.

  Once the surgeon’s mate had declared that Hannah was recovered from her illness, she was put to work. The convict women sewed, cooked, cleaned and scrubbed. Hannah’s delicate pale fingers soon became red and calloused from hot water and rough linen.

  Every day, the women were woken by the young Lieutenant Bracegirdle, who rang a bell four times to call them to breakfast.

  After eating, they would get to work. The women who were skilled at needlework were set to mending and sewing shirts and trousers for the sailors and officers. They did not assist with mending the sails – that work was the sole domain of the sailors.

  The rest of the women were divided into work teams. At first, Hannah was horrified to find out that she was expected to scrub the ship’s decks with grey lumps of holystone, or polish the brass fittings. She protested to one of the supervisors, and was threatened with a beating.

  ‘Keep yer trap shut, yer ladyship,’ said Long Meg, who saw what had happened. ‘Else we’ll all feel the bite of the pussycat’s tail.’

  Every three days, the women dragged their straw mattresses and blankets up on deck for airing. There wasn’t enough fresh water to wash the bedding, but the airing helped.

  Hannah soon came to appreciate the work that kept her on deck in the sunshine, although she still felt uncomfortable under the appreciative gazes of the sailors. Other jobs were more unpleasant. Helping the cook prepare the lumps of salted meat and thin, watery stews that were the daily fare on the ship filled Hannah with nausea. The galley was stuffy and smelly, and often as not the barrels of supplies contained more rats and weevils than actual food. To make things worse, the cook would often find excuses to squeeze past her in the cramped galley, pressing himself up against her.

  The worst job was picking oakum. Fragments of old rigging were supplied to the convict women, who had to untwist the hemp rope to form individual fibres. The resulting fluffy pile was then mixed with tar and packed between the ship’s timbers to keep her watertight. The oakum was very rough on Hannah’s hands – already sore from the hot water in the laundry – and the wiry fibres got stuck between her fingernails, causing them to swell and become infected.

  As the notches above Long Meg’s bed increased to seven, then ten, then fifteen, Hannah began to understand the language of the ship. She stopped thinking of the forecastle as being at the front of the ship, and started thinking of it as fore. The quarterdeck was aft. Their sleeping quarters were on the starboard side of the ship, not the right-hand side. She learned the difference between the main mast and the mizzen.

  At night, the women sat on their bunks and played cards. They drank their daily allowance of rum, and giggled as they ran up the stairs to the sailors’ hammocks. Hannah was usually so exhausted by the end of the day that she fell into her bed and was asleep almost immediately, despite the scratchy straw and rough blanket, and the muffled bangs and moans from the sailors’ quarters.

  Hannah and Long Meg were sitting on the forecastle deck with some other women. They were sewing linen shirts which Captain Gartside intended to sell when they reached New South Wales. Hannah was amazed at how fast the other women could sew – she had only ever picked up a needle for her own entertainment, and had never had to repair anything or make clothes.

  As the whistle blew to indicate the sailors’ shift change, Hannah looked up, searching for James. Instead she saw the doctor on the upper deck. Long Meg followed her gaze and made a disgusted sound.

  ‘Do you know him?’ asked Hannah. ‘The ship’s doctor? I thought he was Death.’

  Long Meg barked out a laugh. ‘He is,’ she said, and raised her voice. ‘Oi! Dr Death!’

  Dr Ullathorne turned, and glided up the stairs to the forecastle, where he stood over them. Hannah caught her breath.

  The ship’s surgeon was very tall, and his face had certainly once been handsome, but was now ravaged with white, fleshy pustules. There was an open sore on his upper lip which oozed constantly, and the grey flesh around his nose looked as if it were rotting away. One of his front teeth was missing, and his saliva was as black as pitch.

  ‘You filthy animal,’ he said to Long Meg. ‘How dare you?’ His voice was smooth and educated. He was clearly a man of Quality – or at least, had once been.

  Long Meg stared insolently up at him. ‘Filthy, is I?’ she said. ‘I is no filthier than Lizzy, or Pam, or Katie. But you didn’t mind dallyin’ with them, did you, Dr Death?’

  Dr Ullathorne snarled at Meg, who put down her sewing and stood up. She was tall, but he towered over her. His black saliva glistened.

  ‘We all knows about you,’ said Long Meg. ‘You is the doctor who hands out coffins instead of cures.’

  She moved closer to him, pressing herself up against his body. Hannah felt frozen, just as revolted by Long Meg’s vulgar movements as she was of the doctor’s hideous face and contemptuous expression.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ he said, shoving Long Meg, who fell onto the deck. She looked up at him and grinned without humour.

  ‘Whyever not, doctor?’ she said. ‘Fraid you might catch something?’

  He spat on her, his dark saliva sliding from her cheek like a fat slug, then made a curt gesture to a sailor called Jemmy Griffin who had been watching the exchange.

  ‘Put her in the brig,’ he said as he walked away.

  ‘Aye, Dr Ullathorne,’ said Jemmy, grinning at Meg and grabbing her by the waist. Tattoos of snakes twisted around Jemmy’s wrists, and letters spread all over his back. Cathy, a scraggly blonde convict woman with a hooked nose, had told Hannah that the letters were the initials of every woman Jemmy had ever loved.

  ‘Ahoy there,’ said Meg, leaning against him. ‘Fancy a bit of split mutton?’

  Jemmy winked at Hannah, and hoisted Meg over his shoulder. Hannah felt herself blushing.

  Long Meg laughed. ‘I sees,’ she said to Jemmy. ‘You likes it rough. Happy to oblige.’

  It was not Long Meg’s only trip to the brig, a tiny, box-like cage on the orlop deck in amongst the cattle and pigs and chickens. Something about the doctor enraged her, and she never passed up an opportunity to taunt or insult him.

  ‘Why do you hate him so?’ Hannah asked Meg.

  Long Meg wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s a bad man.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s a whore-monger. Infected. Goes around to all the flash pannery houses tipping girls the token.’

  Hannah frowned. ‘The t
oken?’

  ‘The French disease,’ said Meg. ‘The pox. That’s why he’s such a looker. He is dyin’, and he’s going to take as many whores as he can with him to keep him company in hell.’

  ‘No,’ said Hannah, shocked. ‘I can’t believe that.’

  ‘It ain’t just ladies, either,’ said Meg. ‘There’s many a stripling lad who’s felt the bite of the wasp’s sting. He is like a public ledger – open to all parties.’

  Hannah said nothing, but wondered if it could be true.

  The brig became a second home to Meg. She slipped into the forbidden parts of the ship, the offices on the quarterdeck, and the storage compartments deep in the hold. She stole tobacco and wine, trading it with the other convicts and sailors for favours. She was often out of her bed at night – Hannah would press her hands against her ears as she fell asleep, trying not to hear the strange noises from above, trying not to think of the man and woman she had seen pressed up against the wall back in London.

  Long Meg would always get caught, and end up back in the brig. It reeked of bilge and animals, and had no windows, not even the dim light that came from the overhead grating in the women’s sleeping quarters. The combination of the foul air, the constant irregular movement of the ship, and the suffocating closeness of the room would have made the most hardy sailor ill, and after a few hours, Meg was let back on deck again, with a pale face, an empty stomach, and a temporarily subdued demeanour.

  By the end of the third week the blue skies had gone, replaced by dark clouds that hung low in the sky. A strong wind picked up, making the ropes swing and crack against the canvas sails. It made everyone on board jumpy as they waited for the storm. Sailors hurried about the ship, securing rigging and stowing away any loose objects. The women were told to stay on the orlop deck, out of harm’s way.

  Hannah stretched out on her bed. Long Meg sat cross-legged, tearing strips of paper from a Bible to use for curling her hair. Molly sat next to her, shredding a page from the Bible into tiny pieces.

  ‘What I wouldn’t give for a drink,’ Long Meg muttered. ‘Cooped up in here like chickens. We’ll all be in Davy Jones’s locker before suppertime. Ragin’ storms. There’ll be sea monsters before long, as sure as God made little apples.’