The Canada ploughed on in an endless rolling, dipping and rearing motion through the vast Atlantic Ocean. They were opposite Lisbon, John told her that very morn.
Hannah turned her head to better survey the marks in the frame above her wooden bed. Every morning after the meal she’d scratched a mark, a symbol representing every day of the voyage. When the marks reached twenty, she started a new line. Today there was a complete line and two single marks — twenty two days at sea. One day I’ll tell my grandchildren about it, she thought, God willing. A yard above her head, a patch of light gliding across the deck head of the hold illuminated the massive beams in synchronism with the motion of the ship. It was coming through the air vent, the last of the day’s weak sunshine. She watched, fascinated, envying its freedom to move across its world. On her left, young Rosie dozed, a thin white hand clutching the torn blanket to her neck. Hannah reached across and felt the child’s brow. Sweaty but the fever’s gone. Thank God.
She lay back and closed her eyes reflecting on what lay ahead. Was there a future — a better life for her in the new land? Did it include John Dixon? If he asked her to marry him when they got to Sydney Cove, would she accept? Most people would tell her she’d be silly not to, he being a free man and all. But did she love him? She’d accepted his friendship and was grateful for all he’d done, for his protection from the villains in the crew, extra food, candles and blankets. Once he’d given her a pocket flask of rum which she’d shared with Porter and even Rosie had enjoyed a swig of the fiery liquid although she’d coughed and spluttered. He was a kind, considerate man and if he hadn’t been on board, she would have been vulnerable, at the beck and demand of every sex hungry sailor. Of course, she had laid down with him. What else could she do? He was gentle with her, though, not rough or demanding. He made sure they were alone and private when it happened. Yes, she was grateful but she knew that she didn’t love him. Somewhere, sometime, there could be someone else who would share all the love she had in her heart . . .
Sighing, she rose into a sitting position and shook the sleeping beauty on her right. ‘Porter,’ she shouted into the ear of her namesake. ‘It’s good news. It’s your turn to get the supper.’ She laughed as Hannah Porter opened one eye and groaned.
Chapter 5
THE CANADA AT SEA
April 1810
‘Mr. Robinson.’
‘Captain?’
Captain Ward pointed his hand aloft. ‘Is that hand alert? We should have seen land by now.’
‘Aye, Captain, he’s very reliable. It’s Jack Herron, a top seaman.’ The First Officer glanced with some irritation upwards to the lone figure standing on the mizzen royal yard. He doesn’t even know his own crew, he thought. They’re all the same to him. Just hands, not people.
‘Perhaps we should send him up a glass, Mr. Robinson, to boost his eye.’
‘He’s got extra fine eyesight, sir—’
‘Still, do it. Send him up the glass.’ The Captain muttered something inaudible then raised his voice. ‘Madeira is well behind us. We should be seeing Tenerife by now.’
‘Aye, sir.’ The First Officer shouted to a nearby seaman. ‘Get the glass from Mr. Hendry and race it up to yon Jack. Hurry, man, hurry.’
‘I’ll be in my cabin, Mr. Robinson. Let me know immediately we sight land.’
‘Aye, aye, Captain.’ Robinson stared ahead searching the sea line. An empty horizon, but he had faith in Jack Herron. If there was the slightest smudge to be seen and not a Cape Flyaway, Jack wouldn’t need the damn glass to see it.
Robinson sighed and beckoned to the helmsman who he’d noticed had listened to the officer’s conversation with noticeable interest rather than the detached tact expected of an ordinary seaman. ‘Maintain that course precisely,’ he barked, paused and added. ‘And tune out to things that don’t concern you.’
Robinson leaned against the stern rail and dreamily watched the swelling furrows of the following seas. The northerly was hanging in and they were making good time. Unlike the Captain, he didn’t think they’d see Tenerife for some hours. It was a pity they weren’t stopping in Santa Cruz. After twenty seven days at sea, he wanted to stretch his legs and, besides, he’d heard good reports about those sex-crazed, mixed-race exotic islanders. Still, he’d look forward to Rio. Now, there was a place and they say the women, well—’
‘Land ho, land ho.’
Robinson tore himself away from the rail and looked up. Jack Herron stood braced on the yard, one hand on the mast, the other pointing. ‘Land to the south west,’ he shouted, ‘about twenty plus miles.’ He drew his hand back and cupped it around his mouth and directed his voice down to the deck. ‘Land, Mr. Robinson, south-west about twenty miles.’
Robinson waved in acknowledgment. ‘Well done, Jack,’ he shouted above the sea noise and turned to a midshipman, who’d appeared on the quarterdeck.’ Ah, Mr. Stubbins, an opportune time. Go to the Captain’s cabin. Give him my compliments and tell him Tenerife is to starboard.’
Robinson smiled as the youngster jumped to attention and sped to the companionway. He remembered something the Third Officer had told him at breakfast — something about Bartholomew Stubbins saving his virginity for marriage. They’d all had a good laugh over that. On a ship like this, with all those women’s tongues hanging out for it? The junior officers had decided to take young Bart with them when they got to Rio and sort him out. He smiled then froze. The Captain was striding towards him. There was work to be done.
Hannah mopped her face with the already wet rag and moved it around to the back of her neck to sop up the streams of sweat that eddied down her back. Beside her, Rosie had shed her outer clothes and lay supine — exhausted and moaning about the heat — clad in only a chemise. Through the transparent material, her budding breasts showed clearly, saturated and outlined in a bath of sweat. They’d been becalmed for nearly a week now off the coast of Africa, the Canada squatting immobile, ever so slightly rolling in the languid, oily sea. The sails hung forlornly, nary a ripple disturbing their inertia. The doldrums, John called it, not a drop of wind. It was as if they were in another world, Hannah thought, an ethereal existence of infinite stagnation. Oh, God, she prayed, let this ship move before we all die here in this furnace. Soon, they’d be going up top. It was their turn, only twenty allowed at one time for a glorious wonderful three hours on the open deck. There, they inhaled the fresh salt air, looked at the far-off never-changing horizon and upwards to the open blue sky and sometimes they would see birds, generally they were storm petrels, but occasionally, the huge albatross would zoom over the deck and turn in between the masts before veering away into the blue sky. Hannah looked along the facing rows of convicts that stretched all the way aft. The ashen, ravaged faces of the women convicts revealed their desperate state of mind and body.
There’s only death down here, she thought. Up top is life. Out of this ship is life. God willing, she would get them, her friends Rosie and Porter, to Sydney safe and sound and hopefully a new life. Thoughtfully, she eyed the young girl dozing uneasily beside her. She couldn’t go up on deck in that flimsy undergarment. She’d drive the crew mad if she didn’t put a dress back on. She was no longer a child but a budding young woman with all the trials of life still to come. Something made her glance aft again. Big Tess stood glaring. As their eyes locked, Tess made an obscene gesture but Hannah looked away. That scum hasn’t forgotten us, she thought.
‘Have you ever known it as bad as this, Captain?’ Robinson asked.
Captain Ward stroked his chin. ‘Not really but I remember in 04 just north of the Seychelles we were sitting for about a week. It was quite maddening, I recall. The skipper at the time, Captain Peter Ross, used the rowboats to pull the ship.’
‘Did that help?’
‘Not really, but it kept the crew busy and stopped them bellyaching.’ He mopped at the rivulets of sweat on his brow. ‘Mind you, that was a cargo vessel and not a convict ship.’
‘Sir, while we have th
is extreme heat, I was wondering if I could get your approval for the officers to divest themselves of their outer coats.’
‘Yes, approved.’ Captain Ward gave his First Officer an amused glance. ‘Mind you, mister, that doesn’t include you or me, unfortunately.’
‘No, sir.’ That came as no surprise, Robinson thought.
‘We have a couple of other matters to discuss, Mr. Robinson, if you please. Firstly, I understand Mr. Stubbins is exempt from duty down below. Now can you explain to me why he is getting special privilege?’
‘Sir, I thought it better to keep him away from some of the women down there—’
But, by so doing, he is not gaining experience in dealing with such scoundrels which he needs to learn as an officer. I would think it is appropriate as part of his education and training that he is put on the roster the same as all the other officers. Don’t you?’
‘I’ll attend to it, Captain.’
‘So be it and one last thing. The hatch can be removed until we need it again. Use the grate only. I want to give the convicts more air.’
‘They’ll be pleased about that, Captain.’
Captain Ward nodded. ‘I’m sure they will. Carry on, Mr. Robinson.’
As the Captain strode away, Robinson wondered if he would ever really understand him.
They sat in the shade of a canvas lean to near the entrance to the crew’s quarters. Sailors gave them an interested appraisal and the odd comment as they came and went through the companionway. John ignored them, Hannah noted. She herself sat, immobilized by the intense heat, on a coil of rope and gazed forlornly out at the flat, oily sea. Even the occasional seagull that flew over the ship looked drained of energy. We are all doomed, she thought, and glanced across at her companion. ‘Where are we, John? Still on the earth or are we in hell?’
John Dixon shoved his grubby cloth cap to the back of his head and frowned. ‘We must be in hell, Hannah.’ He grinned. ‘I think I saw the devil himself with his fork. He was walking on the water.’ He looked at her keenly and reached for her hand. ‘You have to be strong, Hannah. I know it must be bad down below but soon, oh, God, I hope we’ll be sailing again. If there’s anything more I can do in the meantime—’
‘You’ve done plenty, John, and I’m so very grateful.’
‘I wish I could do more, permanently. He searched her face then looked out to sea. ‘To answer your question, we’re off the coast of Africa.’ He pointed to his left. ‘Over there about four hundred miles is a place called Sierra Leone — it’s been British land now since 1808 — and behind us, about two hundred miles back, we passed the Cape Verde islands which belong to the Portuguese.’
‘If the wind comes up,’ she asked, ‘when would we get to Rio?’
‘Well, we’ve got a long, long way to go, still a few weeks, I would think.’
Hannah frowned at the news but they sat silent, comfortable with each other. She wondered whether she should tell him that she’d missed her period and how would he react? Would he view the news favorably and accept his obligations or would he wipe her off like a dirty rag and find another woman. She decided to wait until she was absolutely sure.
‘The wind’s coming up,’ shouted the bosun, striding by. ‘Look at the topsails.’
‘Yes, bosun, yes, I can feel it. It’s wonderful, a good breeze already and the upper topsails are catching.’ A gleeful Robinson turned away and ran to the Captain’s cabin. ‘Sir,’ he descended the stairs and shouted before he’d even knocked on the cabin door. ‘Sir,’ he repeated, ‘we have got wind.’ The cabin door slid open and Captain Ward raised his eyebrows. ‘What, Mr. Robinson? Who’s got this wind? Would it be you or the ship?’
Robinson gave a wry smile. I knew that would put the old man in a good humor, he thought. ‘It’s looking like a fair breeze, sir, about ten to fifteen, north westerly aspect.’
‘Thank you. I’ll be up when I finish dressing. In the meantime, get the bosun to put all canvas up and steer a degree or two east of south west.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Robinson replied but the door had already closed in his face. Up on deck, he passed on the orders and watched as the crew scampered up the rat lines. In a few minutes the Canada dressed in her going-out gear — as the bosun called it — and the topsails, top gallants and royals billowed in the strengthening wind. Robinson stood beside the helmsman and looked ahead over the bowsprit towards the far distant coast of South America. When the Captain came on deck about an hour later, the Canada was dashing through the blue water ahead of a strengthening following wind with the crew in a jovial mood. The few convicts on deck shuffled uncomfortably as the Captain came into view but he didn’t order them down below as Robinson thought he would. Instead he smiled and nodded at the convict called Hannah Stanley as he passed by to inspect the rigging. A nervous bosun stood by as the master checked the sails. ‘Good,’ he conceded after a careful appraisal and a relieved bosun nodded. At the helm, the First Officer displayed a relaxed mood as the Captain stood beside him. ‘It’s great to be away, sir,’ Robinson commented.
‘Aye, Mr. Robinson, that it is.’ The Captain removed his bicorn and deeply inhaled the salted air. ‘Aye,’ he repeated. ‘Rio, here we come. Thank God we’re away.’
It was while Hannah and Porter were on deck that they heard the screaming coming through the open hatch. Hannah, startled, rose and grasped Porter’s arm. ‘Quick,’ she urged. ‘Let’s get below. It could be—’
‘Rosie,’ Porter finished for her. ‘It sounds like her.’
They ran to the hatch. Ahead of them the deck duty officer, Bartholomew Stubbins, scrambled down the ladder into the hold. They followed his blue coat and shoulder-length fair hair through the mass of convicts at the foot of the ladder. ‘Move aside, there,’ Stubbins announced and added ‘please.’ Most convicts drew aside to allow passage for the ship’s midshipman and Hannah and Porter quickly followed. The crowd parted and Hannah viewed their bunk. Big Tess stood over Rosie, coiled into a foetal position, belting her repeatedly around the head with those huge hands while the young girl screamed at her to stop.
‘Stop this,’ Stubbins raised his voice but paused, uncertain.
Porter pushed him aside and jumped on Tess’s back. ‘You filthy dirty whore, leave her alone.’ Tess threw her off and turned to resume the attack but stopped when she sighted the blue coat. ‘She stole my drinkin’ mug,’ she screamed at Stubbins. ‘Either her or it was that slut from Kent.’ She pointed at Hannah but her eyes remained on the young midshipman, weighing his reaction.
Behind her, Rosie, dressed only in her chemise, jumped to her feet, moved quickly around Big Tess and ran to Hannah who threw a protective arm around the young girl. ‘It’s a lie, sir. She touched me in my private part, sir.’ Waving her hands, Rosie turned to the young officer. ‘When I wouldn’t let her go on with it, she—’
‘Lash the bitch, sir,’ Porter yelled and the crowd, propelled into action, moved forward, supporting her call. ‘Lash the bitch, sir,’ they screamed.
The young midshipman was in a dilemma. His azure blue eyes sparkled with sudden moisture as he faced the huge convict. Standing arms akimbo, a sneer on her twisted lips, she stared down at him disparagingly challenging him as if he was a little boy. He was terrified. Around him, the convicts were getting more and more excited. He heard someone at the back yell out ‘Throw the bitch overboard, sir.’
‘Mr. Stubbins, sir.’ Hannah looked earnestly into the pale, babyish face. ‘Please . . . please do something for Rosie. She’s not well and now this terrible thing . . .’
Bartholomew swung his gaze back to Rosie. He hadn’t noticed before how pretty she was, even in her distress. His eyes flickered to Big Tess, and he tried to think what First Officer Robinson expected him to do. It came to him then, that day on the poop. If you want to be an officer, act like one. ‘You are on a charge,’ he told Tess resolutely, voice quavering then rising in strength and determination. ‘You will face the Captain. Go back to your bunk no
w.’
Tess sneered. ‘Frig you, you snotty little boy. I never touched the little slut. She—’
‘Go to your bunk, I said. You are talking to the duty officer. Do as I say or—’
‘What, little lad? You lay a hand on me and I’ll tear you apart and—’
‘What’s going on here, Mr. Stubbins? ‘There was movement in the companionway. Convicts were shoved aside, as the Second Officer and the bosun elbowed their way into the middle of the crowd. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘Sir, I‘ve placed the convict Tess on a charge of assault but she won’t go to her bunk.’
‘Won’t she?’ responded the Second Officer. ‘Well, well.’ There was a blur of movement as he charged, grabbing Tess by the arm and wrenching it behind her. He shoved it up higher until she screamed. ‘Won’t do as you’re told by the duty officer, eh? You won’t be going to your bunk now. You’re going to the brig. Now march.’ Tess, screaming obscenities, was propelled up the ladder by the two officers. Quiet returned to the orlop and the convicts went back to their bunks.
A relieved Bartholomew strode to Rosie’s side, his face one of concern. ‘I do hope you’re not hurt badly, miss.’ His blue eyes locked with her large brown ones and his senses triggered with excitement. She was beautiful. ‘I . . . perhaps the surgeon could check you out, miss, if you . . .’ His voice faded and his eyes dropped to her bosom, the mesmerizing outline of her breasts as they rose and fell tantalizingly beneath the almost transparent chemise.
Rosie smiled. ‘I thank you, sir, for your kind thoughts but I am recovered now, thanks to you, sir, I am very grateful and I didn’t take her drinking mug, sir, I really didn’t.’
Bart returned her smile and on an impulse reached out his hand. Her fingers found his, lingered and caressed. ‘I am sure you would not do that. What is your name? ’
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