Hannah

by Raymond Clarke

  ‘I think he’s giving us a message,’ the bosun whispered to John Dixon, who rolled his eyes in acknowledgment.

  ‘Shush,’ warned the First Officer.

  ‘But, having said that,’ the Captain continued, ‘and aware of some doubtful tradition already established on previous voyages, if you are not on watch and a female convict is willing — note my word willing — to fraternize . . . ’ Captain Ward paused to acknowledge voices of approval, ‘do it out of my sight. A last word though, anyone taking an unwilling woman will be flogged in front of his shipmates before the mast. Is that clear?’ The Captain stepped back, awaiting a response. An uneasy murmuring spread over the deck.

  ‘Is that clear? The First Officer, John Robinson, shouted. ‘THE CAPTAIN ASKED YOU IS THAT CLEAR?’

  ‘Aye, that’s clear,’ screamed the crew, galvanized into action.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ added the lone voice of Peter Driscoll, the sail-maker’s assistant.

  The Captain gave an amused smile at Driscoll. ‘If you please, Mr Robinson.’

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘Dismiss the crew.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  John Dixon watched the crew disperse. He was pleased the Captain had laid down the rules about the women and the convicts would be relieved to hear the news, too. At least, everyone on the ship would know the situation. He thought about Hannah, being with her, running his fingers through her long, brown hair, searching those dreamy, grey eyes and kissing those full, wholesome lips. There was something special about this young girl from Kent. Sure, he wanted her like any red-blooded man would want a pretty woman but he had an overpowering urge to protect her from harm as could easily happen on a prison ship... He was jolted back into reality as the bosun’s voice boomed in his ear. ‘When ye ready, John, and ye stop dreaming about that wench, organize three seamen to hollystone the poop deck.’

  ‘Aye, aye, bosun,’ John replied. He stole a quick glance to starboard and the land mass on the horizon. He guessed they were near abreast of Selsey Bill. After Portsmouth, they would be away, clear of the busy Channel, and into the huge expanse of the grey Atlantic. Then, the ship would be more relaxed as it set a straight course for the Canaries. There’d be much more time, then, for him to pursue Hannah and, hopefully, claim her for the voyage if she was willing. ‘Aye, aye, bosun,’ he repeated unnecessarily and smiled broadly. He moved with eagerness to the fo’c’s’le to enlist the services of three most likely unwilling volunteers...

  ‘The ship’s stopped, hasn’t it?’ Rosie stirred, anxious.

  ‘Yes, this must be Mother Bank.’ When her companions looked puzzled, Hannah added. ‘We’re anchored just outside Portsmouth town. We’ll be here ‘till tomorrow.’

  ‘And pray, tell us,’ Porter put on a false haughty air. ‘What else did your good friend John tell you?’

  Hannah laughed. She eased herself into a sitting position and eyed her friend. ‘Good news for you, maybe, if you want. He told me his friend, you know, the dark-haired one with those thick eyebrows and the tattoos on his back is keen on one Hannah Porter and wants to make her acquaintance. So there you go. He’s—’

  ‘No oil painting. Let’s face it.’ Porter gave a apprehensive giggle. ‘I don’t know about him. He scares me.’ She grimaced then her eyes sparkled with a new thought. ‘I do know who I really fancy though.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Rosie asked, eager expression betraying her interest.

  ‘You’re too young to hear this. Cup your ears, missy.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m fourteen,’ Rosie responded, a little hurt. ‘I’m near fifteen,’ she added.

  ‘Not for eight months, Rosie Posey. Anyway, who’s the lucky fellow, well?’ Hannah demanded, turning to Porter. ‘What man has taken your eye?’

  ‘Well, if you must know and keep it quiet, it’s Bartholomew Stubbins.’

  ‘What, the young midshipman?’ Hannah exploded. ‘He’s only a boy. My God, Hannah P—’

  ‘Stanley, you really do go on. One Bartholomew, he’s got those beautiful blue eyes and when he smiles it is so bewitching. He’s always so polite when he speaks. I—’

  ‘He’s my age,’ Rosie stated, matter-of-factly. ‘Maybe I should be the one to make eyes at him.’

  They laughed at this remark of the young one but Hannah couldn’t help wondering if Rosie wasn’t at least partly serious. For no definite reason, the very thought made her feel uneasy.

  Up top on the deck of the Canada, the subject of the convict women’s fantasies was receiving a dressing down from the First Officer. ‘Mr. Stubbins, try and remember you are an officer-to-be on this ship and behave like one. You were in charge of the longboat with specific duties to attend to in Portsmouth and what happened? You allowed some no-hopers in the crew to jolly off to the fleshpots in town — with your approval, seemingly — and you couldn’t find them for hours, could you? That was damned incompetence on your part, sir.’ The midshipman raised his head to say something but the First Officer raved on. ‘Quiet while I’m talking, if you please. Not only did you finally get the boat back to the ship in the dark, but the Captain — yes, the Captain . . .’ Mr. Robinson noted the lad’s face turn pale at the mention of the name. It will do him good, he thought, throw a scare into him. ‘The Captain is aware of the incident. He wanted the boat back before dark to use, but what did he have to do? Take the damn yawl, that’s what.’

  Tears formed in Bartholomew’s exquisite blue eyes. They formed at the corners and trickled down his ashen cheeks. Robinson felt a twinge of pity for the lad’s distress but he was only doing what he was told. ‘Put the fear of God into him,’ Captain Ward had ordered. ‘That might teach him to follow orders if he wants a future career at sea.’

  ‘Look, Bart,’ the First Officer lowered his voice. ‘We all make mistakes.’ He shook his head. ‘God, haven’t I made a few in my time.’ He gave the midshipman a serious glance. ‘You’re lucky you’re serving under a good skipper like Captain Ward. I did my time in the 90’s under some of the harshest Captains you could imagine but I learnt the hard way. My advice to you, sir, is to follow orders explicitly and control your men. You are the boss. Act like it. Okay?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir, thank you.’ Bartholomew dried the tears with a sleeve of his blue coat. ‘First Officer, sir, should I go and . . .’ He paused, tentative. ‘Do you think I should apologize to the Captain personally?’

  ‘No, keep clear of him. Just do your job. He’ll soon forget it — in time. Oh, and one last thing. The two crew who absconded, those rogues Casey and Truscott, will be flogged when we get out of the channel. I want you to be there calling the count as it’s done.’

  ‘Ah . . . yes, sir.’

  ‘Dismiss, Mr. Stubbins.’ First Officer Robinson watched as the boy sped aft. He’s going to be good, he thought, given time. Then again, perhaps he’ll find a good woman, get a job in a bank and give up the sea. A good-looking gent like him would have no trouble in attracting the girls, good or bad. The convict women ogled him every time they saw him. He’d have to keep an eye on him — make sure he didn’t into get trouble with either the convicts or the crew. Still, if Bart wanted to sow his oats with one of the harpies, so be it. Some of them were clean but some had syphilis. That was a problem — finding a good one. He was glad he had.

  ON THE WHALING SHIP

  ‘SPRING GROVE’

  SOUTH SEA FISHERIES

  April 1810

  They were close now, the sprouting consistent and unhurried. A group of four sperm whales lay directly in their path, oblivious of human presence. Daniel shot a glance back to the ship. Their pennant was up, the go-ahead signal, while the pennants for the other two whaling boats were flying down, indicating hold. He grimaced, knowing full well what that meant. Their boat would be the first to strike, the intention being to scatter the tight-knit group so the other boats could engage.

  He shot a glance aft to the first mate who nodded, pointing ahead. Daniel’s gaze settled on young James in
the stroke-oar position. The boy’s face was ashen with fear. He gave him a ‘thumbs up’ and the boy tried to smile but his face had frozen in trepidation of the unknown. Only his eyes blinked in acknowledgement. Lans will look after him, Daniel watched and hoped.

  ‘One of them is sounding,’ Paddy shouted. ‘Look.’

  The flukes of the nearest whale lashed the surface into foam before the tail hung vertical as if proudly displaying its identity before the creature disappeared into the sea. The mid-ship oar swore. ‘Be Jasus, let’s hope they don’t all sound.’

  ‘Quiet,’ the boat-header shouted. ‘Row all. Dan’el, we’ll take the one on the port.’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ Daniel stood in the bow, bracing himself as the boat drew within fifty yards. The smooth hickory handle of the harpoon lay easily in his hand and he sensed the excitement of the crew rise to a crescendo — shouted encouragement — as they closed. The eyes on the huge dark head seemed to be watching them with hostility as they neared... thirty yards... seventy feet ... sixty feet... fifty...

  ‘Stop rowing,’ screamed the first mate. ‘Peak oars. Dan’el, it’s all yours.’

  ‘Give it to him, Dan’el, ‘shouted Paddy, beside him in the bow. ‘Go, man.’

  Daniel held the harpoon aloft, hands gripped tightly on the shaft. Strangely, he felt no fear as the boat drifted closer to the whale. Thirty feet ... twenty five... twenty... The massive head loomed above them as he struck with all his strength, the iron tearing into the vulnerable neck.

  ‘Good strike. It’s deep and holding,’ Paddy whooped.

  The crews’ eyes riveted on the king of the sea as it lay inert, seemingly undisturbed a few feet in front of the bow. Only the suspicious twitching of one awesome eye acknowledged a hint of pain.

  ‘Now,’ the first mate ordered and he and Daniel scurried past each other. ‘Watch for lob-tailing,’ Daniel warned.

  In the bow, the first mate stooped and raised a lance. He threw with speed and accuracy and the barb tore into the eye and a torrent of rich, red blood sprouted into the air. As he reached for another lance, the whale ejected a bloody mist that rained down on the boat. A foul-smelling acrid mixture of air and blood — expended from the lungs — blew high above the crew and fell showering equipment and crew. ‘Oh, shit,’ someone complained and big Lans laughed but Daniel only had eyes for the whale. ‘It’s going to breach, skipper,’ he warned.

  ‘One more,’ responded the first mate. ‘We’ve got time for one more. Wait.’ He stood swaying with the boat’s violent movement, eyes mesmerized by the huge head that propelled upwards and loomed above them. The body smashed down perilously close to the prow and he jumped in nervous reflex, stumbled, recovered and supported himself with one hand on the rail. He hurled the lance into the soft flesh behind the eye. ‘Stern all,’ he screamed. ‘Stern all—’ His voice died in the thunder of the lobtail as the whale lowered its head and thrashed its flukes on the sea. Water poured over the bow drenching the First Mate and Paddy O’Driscoll.

  Daniel winced dreading the sound of smashed timber as the whale struck the sea again. ‘Stern all,’ he screamed the first mate’s order. ‘Pull strongly, lads.’

  As they backed away, the whale blew streams of rich blood that cascaded onto the bloody froth that once was a sea. There was a sickening smell as the whale voided its stomach and bowels.

  ‘Watch the line now,’ the first mate ordered. ‘Keep arms clear, young fellow. It’s ready to run. Lans, get ready to wet line. Keep rowing, lads. That’s it, a bit more... that’ll do. Peak oars. Now we wait and watch.’

  The mortally wounded creature swam in agonizing reducing circles, line pulsing out and then dormant in accordance with its erratic course. The whale continued to thrash the bloody water until it finned out, rolling on its side its dorsal fin pointing sadly and silently into the air. The crew cheered as Paddy reefed in the line, the boat moving rapidly to the carcass. The first mate, lance in hand, watched intently as they made the final approach. The bow butted to the body and he lowered the weapon into the bottom of the boat. ‘Paddy, attach a line.’

  ‘Aye, skipper.’ Paddy, boat spade in hand, stood over the head and hacked. The razor sharp blade cut effortlessly into the flesh above the jaw. He attached a tow rope through the anchor point he made and stood, rubbing his back. ‘It’s all done, skipper.’

  The first mate recovered the lances and harpoon and stood back in exhilaration. ‘Well, lads, a great day’s work. Well done.’

  ‘Those flukes were pretty close though, I reckon,’ commented the midship-oar. ‘Jasus, I near shit myself.’

  ‘Ah, was that what that bloody stink was?’ Paddy quipped. ‘And here’s me thinkin’ it was the feckin’ whale.’

  The entire crew laughed strongly in appreciation of Paddy’s wit but Daniel thought they were also in laughing in relief at a near escape. He thought the first mate had cut it pretty close with that second lance when the whale was already dying. There was no need for it. Still, they’d got away with it this time. He tied Paddy’s rope on the transom and gave a wave up front. ‘Line secure.’ As they towed the whale back to the ship, Daniel looked for the other two boats.

  The third mate’s boat was in the act of harpooning as they watched. Further east, the Captain’s boat rowed steadily towards some whales sprouting in the far distance. Other than that, the sea was now empty of whales. That wouldn’t make the Captain happy.

  ‘How many barrels do you think, Dan’el?’ The first mate asked, taking a seat on a covered line tub.

  ‘It’s a big bull, Jack, so it’ll be a good return.’

  ‘It’s a good start, anyway. By the way, you did fine today. That harpoon dug in deep.’

  ‘Thanks. Your lances were spot on, too.’ Daniel said with a wry smile but his gaze returned to the Captain’s boat, a small black dot on the eastern horizon. ‘I don’t think we’ll see the Captain for some time.’

  The first mate laughed. ‘No, I think he’ll be in New Zealand soon if he keeps going.’

  Raucous yells of achievement came from over the water. The third mate and his crew were celebrating. The whale they were securing for towing looked even bigger than theirs, Daniel thought.

  The excitement had spread to the first mate. He jumped to his feet and pointed at the ship. ‘Row hard, me lads. Let’s beat that mob o’ no-hopers to the ship. Row, boys, row for your lives.’

  The crew laughed as they worked, the sweat pouring of fevered brows. Even the young lad on his first kill was joining in the fun although Daniel caught him shooting occasional unbelieving glances aft at the giant leviathan that trailed them . . .

  AT SEA ON THE CANADA

  May- July 1810

  Hannah Stanley leant on the rail and stared at the receding landmass. She’d been watching this last sight of England for nigh on two hours now as the dark protrusion dipped further into the pallid sea. She pulled her bonnet forward and retied the ribbon. Her ears were frozen as were her hands. The wind had turned to the north. Soon, she’d have to go below as her time was almost up. Down in the convict quarters would be warmer along with the smells of pungent unwashed bodies, chamber pots and buckets. She began a strong intake of the salt air and hesitated as a shadow loomed beside her. She turned to see John Dixon.

  He leant on the rail next to her, elbows touching. ‘That’s Land End.’ He pointed to the now indistinct smudge on the horizon. ‘It’s well named, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was suddenly misty-eyed. ‘I wonder whether I’ll ever see it again.’

  ‘Who knows, Hannah? I don’t even know when I will. Could be at least a year, maybe two, I would think. Oh, God, I’m sorry. I know how

  hard it must be for you...’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She brightened. ‘We can’t change the past, only the present and perhaps the future. Maybe there’s a better life waiting for us in this new world we’ve heard so much about. Tell me, John, what’s this Sydney Town really like?’

  ‘It’s a bit w
ild.’ His tone grew serious. ‘You have to be careful. There are a lot of scoundrels around, but a lot of good people too. If you can, try to get a job working in the country — they call it the bush there — and not in Sydney Town, if you can avoid it.’

  ‘Right.’ She moved away from the rail. ‘I’d better get below. They’ll call me soon.’ She looked at his homely face under the cloth cap. ‘Thank you, John, for your friendship.’

  ‘Hannah,’ John Dixon caught her arm. ‘Look, ah . . . I’m not on duty tonight. Would you meet me on deck?’

  ‘But how can I? All convicts are secured below at night.’

  ‘It can be done. I can fix it and I’ll send for you. I’ll see the duty officer.’ He paused, remembering. ‘It’s the Third Officer, Sydney Fife. He’s on duty at eight tonight and he’s a good friend of mine.’ He looked deeply into Hannah’s eyes. ‘Say you’ll come, Hannah. Please.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, meeting his gaze and then looking out to sea. ‘Yes, I will come.’

  ‘Thank you.’ John Dixon watched her as she lowered herself down the open hatch and placed her feet on the ladder. She turned to view him, a hint of a smile on her lips before she disappeared, his last glimpse of her, the crowning glory of dark brown hair. She was coming. Smiling, he looked north into the thickening overbearing sky, gauging the strength of the wind. It would be a fast run to the Canaries if the northerly stayed but icy cold. Whistling, he approached the quarterdeck wondering if the third officer was asleep in his bunk or running a trolling line which he was prone to do.

  He had to ensure there was no problem with Hannah coming on deck. An instant vision of her comely face, full lips and searching hazel-grey eyes came to him. She was a fine woman. Even if a convict, she would make someone a dutiful, caring wife. Maybe he was in love. He thought about this as he entered the quarterdeck and nodded respectfully at the Second Officer Mr. Hendry. Love? He didn’t know what it was. Who did? There was Sally back in Plymouth with whom he had some sort of understanding but England was a long way away and getting longer each day, wasn’t it?