10
I am to sail on His Majesty’s Ship Prospect. She was once a collier, built in Hull, and was purchased by the Royal Navy and refitted as a research vessel. She has three masts, is full rigged and equipped with four cannons and ten swivel guns. She is constructed from white oak, elm, pine and fir. She is currently at Deptford, where she has been refitted for a scientific voyage, given extra cabins encircling the officers’ mess to accommodate the men of science on board (and one woman of science). There is extra space too for use as workrooms and equipment storage. I will join the ship at Deptford, whence she will go to Falmouth for provisioning and to board the last remainder of the crew. We shall then set sail from Falmouth to Lisbon.
I have packed my clothes – simple, plain, functional – as well as my papers, key texts and instruments, all in one trunk. I have included some light walking shoes; a self-made list of Spanish and Portuguese phrases for unusual occurrences – my command of both languages is adequate for general purposes – and my compass; a book on marine life, namely the third volume of Albertus Seba’s Thesaurus – a parting gift from Mr Applebee – and the instrument of my design I viewed in a dream, that a carpenter has since constructed for me: a magnified glass pane housed in a framed box, which I will use as a viewer for observing the shallow sea floor without having to place my head under the water. I have omitted from my case anything superfluous or overtly feminine. I am determined to travel as weightlessly as possible, just like those swift porpoises down the Thames.
It is time to say farewell to Mr Woods, Mr Applebee and Susan. We stand in the kitchen after a dawn breakfast of bacon and bread, as my ship is to leave early in the day to reach Falmouth in good time. My benefactor comes yawning down to the kitchen to find me.
‘I hope I have been a good sponsor to you, my dear. I know there are days and certainly nights where I have behaved more like an ass than any man, where my consumption of spirituous liquors is concerned. But I hope you have felt some small admiration for me – now then, do not interrupt me, Dawnay, for you know you will go on and on and I will never finish my point. I knew from our first meeting that you were an extraordinary person. I know you will make your way in the world. But I feel I am losing a child. And though you are a young woman, I do still see that scrappy little wretch who turned up hungry each week and brightened my fireside with her stories of learning.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ say I and for the first time we embrace, as father and daughter might, as patron and ward, as friends.
I turn to my tutor and, despite the countless hours we have spent side by side, we are awkward and cannot find it within ourselves to smooth this parting. Instead, we shake hands in a rather solemn way, though we smile and my tutor nods; his large brown eyes shine with feeling, I think. Susan grows impatient and puts her arms around me and kisses my cheeks, saying, ‘Take care, you mad girl. Don’t dismay that young sea captain too much.’
I am conveyed to Deptford by my benefactor’s coach and deposited with my luggage at the Royal Dockyard, before the Master Shipwright’s house, fronted by plane trees, where a maidservant in her apron stands in the door shaking out the breakfast tablecloth in my direction. I turn away from flying crumbs and see opposite, across the wharf, a lofty pink-stoned building topped with a clock tower and fronted with the royal coat of arms on its façade. I remember my tutor told me this is the Great Storehouse. What a splendid site is Deptford Docks, with its pleasant architecture, small river craft and barges passing by, and, further on, the sight of the ribs of partial ships being constructed in their own personal docks. This area has a tangible history of seafaring, with the knighting of Drake by Queen Elizabeth aboard the Golden Hind. I understand here too Raleigh laid down his cape for her.
Beside me is a building dock, where I stare up at the ship that waits there. From the description my benefactor has given me, I think she must be my ship, the Prospect. I am told she is not an immense ship, yet she looks it to me, tall and mighty, proud and solid, a movable building afloat with windows and floors and a life on board. At the front under the bowsprit there is a figurehead of a mermaid, tastefully draped in wooden cloth to preserve her modesty, her hand raised and shielding her eyes as she looks out for ever beyond us to the horizon. I do not fancy myself important enough for it to be the case, but somehow as I gaze upon her, I have an inkling that she waits for me and me alone: nonsense, yet my true feeling. After all, we will be but the two women aboard this vessel on this journey.
As I soak in the maritime atmosphere, a boy of about ten years of age appears and asks if I am ‘Mrs Price’, and I nod. He arranges for my trunk to be brought on board, then leads me up on to the main deck and asks me to wait for him to fetch the captain. To stand on a ship’s deck! To be far above the quayside, to look down on the men loading kegs on to boats or pulling oars in sweaty effort, to see the buildings shimmering in the glassy water, to throw back my head and stare up at the three tall masts sketched with hard lines against the blue sky, to gaze across the water to our way out to sea and to the commencement of our quest. I wonder if my brother ever stopped detesting his fate enough to enjoy his time on board, if he came to love it though it were his prison and took him away from me, his only family. I wonder if he came to worship his ship and the promise of the sea, in the way I feel at this moment. I fear I am romanticising it all; I will learn if I am soon enough, when we leave the safety of Deptford Docks.
‘Miss Dawnay Price,’ says a voice, and I turn to look upon our lieutenant commander. He is again smartly kitted out in full naval uniform, his white stockings shining and golden buttons glinting in the sunlight. Beside him stands a handsome woman impeccably dressed in high fashion: a gold and crimson silk gown – with bell-shaped sleeves, and ribbons, flowers and lace sewn about the neckline – and her light brown hair piled high in braids about her head and trailing gracefully down the nape of her neck. She is turned away from me and calling, ‘Boys? Come now, boys.’
Brothers of around the same age as the cabin boy cavort behind her, pushing and shoving and snickering, yet turn and run to her on command. They are well trained and line up beside their mother with identical obedience. Though the same height and seeming age, they look quite different; in fact, one the image of the mother and the other the father, as if each face were copied by an expert portraitist. The left has the mother’s hazelnut locks, while the right has shining yellow hair – so bright he seems to have sprung from the sun – and I wonder if our captain sports the same colour beneath his wig. The contrasted effect is disturbed by their having been dressed identically, in orange coats with open-necked cream shirts.
‘Please allow me to introduce my wife, Leonora Alexander, and our twin sons Michael and Arthur.’
‘Your boys are twins?’
‘Oh yes,’ replies their mother proudly, in a mellow and becoming voice. ‘Born together. They are the best of friends and quite inseparable.’
‘I am honoured to meet you all,’ say I and sink low.
‘What an enchanting young woman,’ says the wife. ‘I had imagined a lady of science to be dressed in breeches and frightfully ugly! But you are quite comely, my dear.’
‘Many thanks.’ I curtsey again.
‘My family are on board to say their farewells,’ explains Alexander. ‘Please excuse us while they do so, thereupon I will show you to your cabin. We will be leaving shortly afterwards.’
I nod and the family turn from me. I feel myself dismissed. I go to the rail and watch the life of the dockyard go about its early morning tasks. Yet slyly I observe the lieutenant commander say goodbye to his family. I see her kiss his cheek and watch him ruffle his boys’ hair, then the trio descend the gangway to the quayside, the wife floating as calmly as a swan and the boys running ahead; twins, yet not at all alike; quite an intriguing biological phenomenon. I look back to her husband but find him gone. Then I am summoned by the same boy as earlier, who takes me down a steep staircase and announces, ‘The captain’s cabin,’ upon whose d
oor he raps and waits, his hands clasped behind his back, feet apart, chin raised.
‘What is your name?’ I whisper to him.
‘Noy,’ he says proudly.
‘Your Christian name?’
‘Francis,’ he says, with some suspicion.
‘My name is Miss Dawnay Price. Shall we be friends, Francis? I know no one aboard and have never sailed in a ship. Will you show me how it is done and teach me its ways?’
The spell is broken and he grins broadly. ‘Certainly, miss. I will!’
‘My first question is this: how do we address your Lieutenant Commander Alexander? It is a bit of a mouthful, you see.’
‘Yes, miss. Well, hereabouts we call him Cap’n Alex. Will that do?’
‘That will do admirably. Thank you, Francis.’
The cabin door opens and Francis’s face falls, his body stiffens and he pipes up, ‘Miss Price, sir.’
‘Yes, boy. Off you go.’ He emerges without hat and closes the door to his room. I am only afforded the briefest glimpse inside and see a desk covered with maps and a variety of small instruments of his profession cast across the papers. I also note a red ribbon on his desk, and conjecture if his wife left it with him as a keepsake.
‘Miss Price, please allow me to conduct a brief tour of this deck and show you your quarters.’
‘Thank you, Captain Alex,’ I say, giving a small smile and watching for his reaction.
But his face betrays nothing as he directs me to a door before us. Our brief tour shows me that there are to be four educated men on board, sharing two cabins. After a stay of a month or so in Lisbon on business, the ship will travel onwards to Africa for these gentlemen to pursue their studies and our captain his cartographical duties. I am shown my own cabin, next door to the cabin of our captain. It would seem he plans to keep an eye on me, when he can, as my benefactor would wish. It is a tiny space, a bunk against one wall, a small dresser opposite with a single cupboard below. My trunk, already deposited there, takes up most of the floor space. It is simple, plain and yet it is mine. I already feel attached to it. My little wooden home.
On the deck below us I am shown the cabins of the ship’s surgeon, the master, the captain’s clerk and the gunner, facing the mates’ mess. An adjacent deck houses the remainder of the crew, such as the carpenter and his men, the sailmaker, the boatswain and his mate, the armourer and quartermaster, and a variety of other able seamen, more of whom are to join us at Falmouth. Captain Alex does not take me to any lower decks, I assume due to the proximity of the distasteful stink of the bilge that emanates from those quarters.
As he explains these details to me, I watch him speak and gesticulate, and I think of what my benefactor has told me about this man. This is his first command of his own ship. Lieutenant Commander Robin Alexander is ambitious, hoping to prove himself on this voyage. His father was in the Royal Navy, as were his grandfather and two uncles. He is the youngest of four children, the other three all sisters. What other path was there for him? He was born to go to sea. Next he will wish to be made master and commander, and then a post captain in charge of a large vessel. He must then prove himself in battle, upon which he will succeed to the Captains’ List and have a chance of further illustrious promotion. Thus, he must be keen for war to break out as soon as possible. I think of Owen’s leg. An ambitious naval man has a different outlook on such things than an ensign’s mother.
He leads me back up on to the main deck, at which point we are met by a flurry of well-dressed men all talking hurriedly and smiling and pointing about, coming towards us. I conclude these must be our four Gentlemen of Science, late arriving and excited to be here. Introductions are made and thus I am newly acquainted with the following:
Mr Mathison, a cartographer, who is to help Captain Alex chart a stretch of the north-west African coast; around the same age as me, and in awe of the lieutenant commander.
Mr Kendall, a botanist, who is to study the plants of North Africa and bring back samples and seeds, a man in his fifties, who has travelled across Europe and retrieved many specimens on a variety of intrepid expeditions. I look forward sincerely to picking his brains for ideas.
Mr Piper, whose interest is in the peoples and animals to be found in the African desert; a dandy of perhaps nineteen years of age, whose dress is fussy and wigs the height of fashion, with a lot of money to waste and yearning for adventure. I wonder how he will cope with desert living.
Dr Hodges, a physician who wishes to investigate African diseases and local remedies, an experienced doctor and seasoned traveller, around thirty or so; he has a rather irritating manner of looking away whenever someone else speaks, as if no one but himself has anything of note to impart. Or perhaps he is merely nervous.
I have some difficulty explaining my own interests to these men, as I have no particular label. I am not a surgeon or an astronomer, or another such recognised role. I say that I am studying the flora and fauna of island colonies, and thus this is accepted and I believe approved of. They are all men of independent wealth and I think find it rather amusing that a young woman is among them who presumes to know something of the world of science. We shall see how our first dinner goes, where I may either be utterly ignored, or mocked gently or investigated like one of their research topics. I am certainly an object of curiosity to one and all on this ship, as evidenced by the constant glances, smirks and downright staring I have received from almost every man and boy on board – except the captain – despite my austere dress. The fact remains I am a woman in a man’s domain and cannot escape it. I wish at these moments I had the power of invisibility, or at least could dress and speak convincingly as a man and therefore become of no consequence. I reassure myself that at least on my Portuguese island there will be few people and therefore fewer eyes to gawk and gape at my ridiculous femininity.
I excuse myself from male company to answer a call of nature in my cabin. There is a chamber pot secured under my bunk for the purpose. It is a relief to know I will not be required to point my hindquarters over the side of the ship as I have already glimpsed an able seaman do. My stomach churns and we have not yet set sail. I deliberate my choice to take this journey: to leave the safety of Mr Woods’s comfortable town house; to place myself in a world of men, wood and salt; to be at the mercy of winds, canvas, the sea’s moods and the lives of foreigners. It seems my taste for adventure is a child born to naïve optimism and foolish inexperience. As I squat on the pot, I look about for a receptacle in case I am to vomit. It seems my belly is a realist and is telling me in clear terms the risks I am taking in this lonely journey – alone, no friend, no ally. It was a rash decision and for a moment I almost blame my benefactor and even my tutor for not counselling me with more care, for failing to dissuade me from my rash course. But I know they are not to blame, that they would have needed to lock me in my room to have prevented me. I must face the fact that no one but my own self placed me here in this frightening journey into the unknown.
A tap on the door breaks into my misery.
‘Who is it?’ I squeak, stretching across to place my hand on the door in a sudden fear that someone will open it up to the unwelcome sight of me voiding my bowels.
‘Only Francis,’ says the boy. ‘Cap’n says I am to be your boy, miss. Fetch and carry for you and whatnot. Can I assist you in any way, miss?’
I hesitate, yet see nothing will serve but honesty. ‘You can help me in one minute, Francis, for I have a chamber pot to empty. Is this agreeable to you? Or I can do it myself.’
‘Of course, miss,’ comes his voice, the wood between us muffling it, yet perhaps I hear a catch in it, a hint of a giggle. ‘I’ve done that for gents before, a thousand times. Hand it over when you’re ready.’
‘Thank you, Francis.’
The ship begins to move while I am busy. When I am done, I find a stoppered jug of seawater, retrieve a lump of soap from my trunk and wash my hands. I come out to find Francis standing stiffly, back to me, hands clasped beh
ind as is his customary stance. He turns and grins, and I am immediately at ease and hand him the pot covered with a cloth. He takes it without a word and is off. Back in my cabin, I wash my face and look at it briefly in a hand mirror. My hair is neatly tucked beneath my plain, cream cap, my cheeks are wan and there are shadows beneath my eyes, betraying my sleepless night. I will have to do. After all, in my mind I am not female or male, I am a natural philosopher, a term that has no sex. I rush upstairs to the deck, to find that our ship has been floated out from the dock and is well on her way towards the sea. Now there is no turning back. I watch the seamen about their business, see the Gentlemen of Science throng near the captain and the master’s mate discussing the weather, and confront my choice full face to the salty breeze.
11
It is three days’ sail to Falmouth. I have heard of the dreadful sickness suffered by those new to the sea. My experience of it is curiously halved, as out of thrice I was sick as a dog on the first day, sick again the morning of the second, yet after lunch on that day I began to feel better and was quite well again on the third. This progress gives me hope that I will eventually obtain my sea legs and trouble the water with my vomit no further. During the worst periods, I have lain on my bunk and moaned, attended by Francis who discards my watery offerings. When I am feeling a little better, I get out my papers and read in my berth. I am considering the idea that I may conduct a search for fossils on the island itself or on the mainland nearby, as I have discovered from a recent account of this area that there are ancient remains dispersed about the local landscape. I wonder what I shall find.
Eating seems to aid me with my sickness, though some of the Gentlemen of Science choose the opposite view and eat nothing for the first two nights. Therefore dining is a solitary affair, from a tray brought to me in my cabin. The days have been overcast and close, thus little to see on board but louring grey clouds. And so I have taken my papers and maps to one of the scientists’ work rooms and made further writings on my topic.
Song of the Sea Maid Page 9