Song of the Sea Maid

by Rebecca Mascull

  On the third day, we approach Falmouth and the wind falls. There is talk we will have to wait in port for days, if the weather does not rally. When we dock, I come upstairs away from my studies to watch the busy activity in port and aboard. I see the new crew arriving in dribs and drabs, helping to load up provisions into the holding areas in the lower decks. Some of the men are brought aboard stumbling, shoving and grumbling, by two midshipmen and the master with his gun about them. I realise these must be pressed men. My seasickness rises in my throat. These poor souls are shabby, sallow and slovenly, to a man. Not one of them looks well enough to fasten his own buttons.

  I call Francis to ask to see the captain. I am led to his cabin, whereupon I am summoned to enter. He sits at his desk writing notes beside a diagram or two of waterways and coastal features. He puts down his writing equipment and turns to speak with me, still seated.

  ‘Yes, Miss Price. You wished to see me?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you. I have just been watching the crew come aboard. Are there to be pressed men as part of this crew, sir?’

  ‘There certainly are. Do not fear, miss. My officers and crew are well disciplined and will see they do not cause you nor a man else on board any mischief.’

  ‘I have no fears for myself, sir. But I have a strong objection to the press gang as a method for the procurement of the crew of the Royal Navy.’

  He turns from me and goes back to his quill, taking a penknife from his pocket and sharpening the nib meticulously.

  ‘Life at sea is not an easy one, but it is a good career for any man. The Royal Navy does not have the luxury of a never-ending supply of willing seamen. Therefore, we are obliged to take from the streets the dregs who otherwise pollute it. And make them useful.’

  ‘You remind me of the founder of my orphanage, sir.’

  ‘Beelsby? Well, then I am pleased with the compliment. If indeed it was a compliment?’

  ‘Indeed it was not, sir. I believe the practice of impressment to be wholly wrong. My brother was pressed as a boy and I never saw him again. It is theft, it is a kind of slavery, any kind of which I disagree with in the strongest terms possible.’

  ‘Then please inform one of the crew if you wish to leave this ship here, and your trunk shall be deposited ashore at your convenience.’

  I cross my arms and scowl at him.

  ‘Do you wish to leave my ship, Miss Price?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Then kindly allow me to run it as I please. I would sooner allow a Frenchman to advise me than a woman. Good day to you.’

  I know now that my benefactor hit the mark about this infuriating bigot. I ought to hold my tongue for the present, but once we are out into the open sea and away from land, I should be able to speak to him more or less as I please, for I do not think even he would throw me overboard, woman or not. I am looking forward to those discussions.

  Still docked in Falmouth, and our stomachs recovering, we are all formally invited to dinner with the captain that evening, as a full complement of officers and guests. All the Gentlemen of Science attend. As we are in port, the food is fresh and well-supplied and we are served florendine of rabbit with scalloped potatoes.

  ‘This is an excellent dinner, Captain,’ I remark and there are various noises of agreement around the table.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Price,’ says he and raises a glass to me before sipping, smiling in a genuine fashion. Perhaps he is surprised to hear me speak with approval.

  Say I, ‘I wonder what it is the men are eating this evening, the able seamen I mean. Do they have a similar spread?’

  ‘They are furnished with the required rations prescribed by the Royal Navy for their station.’

  ‘And what does that entail?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ says our captain pointedly and turns a cold eye upon me, ‘you would like to retire to speak with our quartermaster, or even the cook?’

  I smile sweetly at him and one of the young officers interjects: ‘There is no need for Miss Price to leave us, sir, as I know precisely the daily ration of our able seamen, sir. If it be wished, sir, I can tell Miss Price, seeing as she is so interested in our life at sea.’

  ‘As you wish,’ mutters the captain.

  I turn to the young officer, Leland by name, and say, ‘Thank you and please do.’

  ‘Now then, they have some salt pork or salt beef, which the men call in a colourful manner “sea junk”. And there is beer. A little rum. There are dried peas and oats. We start out with some cheese and butter, miss, but this soon goes foul. There are molasses and hard tack always for every man. Sometimes the cook sells off the slush.’

  ‘And that is …’

  ‘Oh, the slush, miss? Why, it is the fatty dregs of boiled salt meat, skimmed off the bottom of the pans and sold as a treat to the men.’

  ‘A treat?’

  There is some clearing of throats around the table.

  ‘Oh yes, miss. There is a roaring trade in it. Always sells out, every time.’

  ‘Thank you, Leland, for your comprehensive reply.’

  ‘My pleasure, miss,’ he says, beaming.

  I then turn my attention to the ship’s surgeon. ‘Dr Forbes, would you say the men are healthy aboard this ship? Or any ship upon which you have served?’

  ‘I would say the officers are healthy. The men vary.’

  The captain puts his wine down rather too quickly and heads turn. ‘What I think Miss Price wishes to know is if our seamen are well provided for or treated badly on my ship. Is that not so, Miss Price?’

  ‘I merely enquire as to the diet of the seamen. The awful disease of scurvy is rife in long sea voyages I understand, and yet no one has so far found a clear cause or practical solution to it.’

  Dr Forbes concurs. ‘That is true. I have been on long voyages and seen the ravages of scurvy. It is a revolting disease. There are many theories about its provenance or cure, yet as you say, miss, there is no foolproof method. Most of us believe it is related to the humours, or a blocked spleen.’

  ‘Or a punishment from God,’ adds Mr Piper. ‘My personal view and that of many others, I dare say.’

  ‘Yes, that too,’ continues the surgeon. ‘As for cure, some swear by tamarind or oil of vitriol. It is well known that idleness leads to scurvy, which is why one most often sees it in the lowest class of the crew; as they say, those below the salt.’

  Say I, ‘I have read a lot about this condition and have seen its dreadful consequences for myself at close quarters.’

  Dr Hodges, our medical Gentleman of Science asks, ‘And where have you seen this, Miss Price?’

  ‘Did you know that children living in institutions, such as orphanages, have often suffered from scurvy? It is not only the disease of seamen.’

  Mr Mathison chimes in, genuinely interested, ‘I did not know that. I did not, I say!’ and he turns to the faces around the table, clearly astonished.

  Mr Kendall adds, ‘So, gentlemen, we have ourselves a scientific mystery to solve. If the same disease is to be found among sailors and orphans, then what can be the connection?’

  ‘As I said,’ says Dr Forbes, ‘a tendency towards idleness and the common occurrence of the disease among the lowest orders of society. Just the sort of child one would find in such an institution.’

  I turn to Mr Piper and ask, ‘And what have such as foundlings done to be punished so cruelly by God?’

  Mr Piper sniggers and replies, ‘I suppose you have been engaged in charity work, have you, Miss Price? You are the very twin of my younger sister, who wastes all the livelong day doling out treats and grammar primers to the little wretches. She comes back stinking of them. Quite repellent! And I have told her that I cannot but think that we are of a different species than the poor and no power but our Lord can change a species. But she will go on with her meddling.’

  Dr Hodges believes he has finished the argument when he pronounces, ‘And no good will such charity do any of them, as they are born to it, will live in
it, and die in it, and that will never change. A man of science knows full well the order of things in society mirrors that of the natural world. It is fixed and immutable.’

  I reflect upon my position. I wonder if it be wise to reveal my origins to everyone around this table, none of whom is aware of the shady circumstances of my birth. Yet I recall at this moment that one man here is fully aware of the details of my upbringing. I glance at him, to find he watches me. He looks away instantly. It is pause enough for the conversation to move in a different direction and the moment to pass. Captain Alex has not revealed me. I already labour under the burden of being a woman in male company. He has spared me from the secondary weight of being known as a low-born foundling. And, though I am not ashamed of it, I am grateful to him for that.

  We wait for a change in the weather only one night. In the morning, I stand on deck and my hair is loosened from beneath my cap by a new stiff breeze. I pull my cloak close about my shoulders and watch the bustle of Falmouth port and see the last crates brought on board, and, last of all, a quantity of pig iron to be used as ballast.

  Captain Alex appears beside me and says, ‘We have a fair wind today and will be under sail very soon.’

  ‘That is good news.’

  ‘Yes, it is very fortunate. Sometimes one has to wait days and days. But perhaps you would prefer that, Miss Price. I wonder if you are quite ready for this journey.’

  ‘Do you question my resolve, sir?’

  ‘No, I do not. I question if you go into it with your eyes quite open. I have not yet met a woman who does well at sea. One has to pander to their feminine needs and calm them in fierce seas. I have always considered the presence of women on board ship to be most deleterious to the ship’s morale. They generally panic in times of trouble and the rest of the time serve as a distraction.’

  ‘Perhaps you will allow that not all women are the same. Just as not all men are the same.’

  ‘I do allow that, yes. I can see that in all respects you are an unusual woman. I can only surmise that your curious talents are God-given, a kind of highly uncommon gift for society: the woman of science. You are in fact a kind of aberration. You should have been born a man. Instead, you are God’s charming mistake.’

  He says this with a slight smile and perhaps I can discern a subtle twinkle in his eye. Is he sporting with me or can he be serious? ‘A mistake?’ say I.

  ‘Yes, but a charming one,’ says he and inclines his head.

  Sport or not, I cannot resist but retort in kind. ‘Well, I do consider sometimes if I were a kind of random error. A little like the birth of twins.’

  ‘Twins?’

  ‘Yes, a kind of blunder by nature, yet with charming consequences.’

  ‘You are fully aware, Miss Price, that I myself have twin sons.’

  ‘Of course. As I say, a delightful consequence of chance. But what possible point is there in twins? What purpose could they serve? Other than to delight us.’

  ‘My sons are not a blunder. They are a welcome gift from the Lord. My wife would be quite faint to hear them spoken of as mistakes.’

  ‘Oh no, sir. You quite misunderstand me. I only remark that twins are very unusual and seemingly quite without purpose. In some cultures, they are drowned at birth, I have heard.’

  ‘Indeed!’

  He is quite beside himself. For a moment, I consider ending the discussion. But I remind myself that he started this, with his comments on my erroneous origins, and this insult – however veiled in playful irony – brought a little choler on me. I will not let him win, I simply cannot.

  ‘Like myself, the clever woman. Not so very long ago, a woman with my knowledge and intellectual attributes would likely be sought out and accused of some witchcraft and hanged. In my case, there was a blend of intellect and opportunity. If I had not been plucked from the greasy stew of humanity and deposited in the orphanage, I would still be on the streets to this day, or else more likely dead, my fine mind gone with me.’

  ‘Please do not forget that God directs all work in His cre-ation. It is no chance you were plucked, as you say, from the streets, but His work.’

  ‘Ah, but it was me who stole the founder’s quill and taught myself to write. And it was this act that attracted my benefactor. There was nothing in either of my environments, be it on the streets or in the asylum, that naturally supported my keen mind. But I fought against the confines of my situation, and improved myself. Poverty is the enemy of the mind. One must fight a way out of it to achieve anything but mere survival. God does not help one to do this. The system of society is weighted against it completely. It is me who created this clever woman.’

  Captain Alex’s cheeks are now a high shade of pink and he glances about him. ‘Miss Price, keep your voice down. Are you aware that you verge on blasphemy?’

  ‘I am not, sir. I agree with you that my brain was a gift from God. But it is what I chose to do with it that belongs to me. And how I flouted my unfortunate circumstances – that of being both an orphan and a female – to become the person you see before you. I had luck along the way, kindness and help from good people, but it was my ambition that brings me here today. As does yours, sir, to rise in the ranks and make your fortune in war. Is it God’s will that you are to rise through the killing of others? I do not believe so, but you are a good man and yet you need war to provide you with promotion. And I believe you were born with it, as a man, this male desire to conquer. It is perhaps this physical power – an obvious difference betwixt male and female – that has led to the subjugation of women. And that is why there are no statues to female thinkers of the past. You must admit it would be highly unlikely that I am the only clever female to exist in the history of the world.’

  ‘No, there was Eve,’ says he with distaste.

  ‘Ah, Eve. Now that is an interesting case. Eve did taste of the Tree of Knowledge and could be said to be the saviour of us all.’

  ‘Saviour?’

  ‘Yes, for what would we be without our thirst for know-ledge? It is what separates us from the beasts after all. I would rather that than paradise any day. Eve desired of the fruit of the tree to make her wise. She wanted to know. And I am no aberration: there are plenty of girls and women who wish to think, to learn, to know. But it is our society and the beliefs of the men who run it that keep women from thinking, from studying and learning. Any woman can do what I have done. Any woman with the right kind of mind. And what leaps could have been made already if all the world’s women – or the poor, or the orphans, or any other powerless outcast – had been educated? Would the longitude problem not be solved by now? Or a universal cure for all? Including the dreadful scurvy? Scurvy is no punishment from God. Have you thought of improving your seamen’s diet, sir? With a mixture of foods, with some pickled fruit and vegetable, rather than slush and hard tack? No wonder it is the able seamen and the pressed men who succumb first, sir. They eat rubbish and their officers eat like kings in comparison. What do you say to that?’

  By now his face is thunderous. And I am quite out of breath.

  ‘I say that you, miss, are the most infuriating and self-opinionated and insolent … woman … no, no … person, male or female – of any race or kind or shape – I have ever had the misfortune to meet. And the sooner we reach Lisbon, the better!’ With this he stamps away.

  I turn to the side and breathe deeply, watching the water lapping at the ship’s side. It is restless and ancient, yet does not tire in its ancient restlessness; it wears its age lightly. I should learn a lesson from its longevity and stop trying to change the world in one argument. I scold myself, as my conversation lacked rational direction. My arguments were muddled into a hotchpotch with no clear point, and I truly allowed my emotions – namely anger – to lead some sections of the discussion. I must do better next time. And I really must stop rising to the bait of Captain Alex. He is quite clearly offended by me and everything I represent. For me, he is the epitome of everything I am fighting against.

/>   12

  That afternoon, we weigh anchor at Falmouth and proceed in calm waters. The sky is clear and vast and we have our first sight of a sunset since sailing. Indeed, it is the first sunset of my life wherein I see the horizon swallow the great fiery globe, and quite a sight it is. The seamen aboard are busy with their duties, yet we travellers are still and quiet with awe. It is a moment I have longed for since gazing from the orphanage window and my heart is glad. I am loath to leave deck for my cabin, even once the sun is long gone. I fall asleep that night bathed in the tranquillity of an ambition achieved. But in the night a storm arises. I wake from my fretful sleep to hear cries of alarm. I sit up and swing my legs about to stand, when the ship takes a heave and my trunk careers across the room and smashes into my bunk, inches from my feet. Say I, ‘God have mercy!’ and hear Francis knocking on my door.

  ‘Miss, you lay still. Don’t be afraid.’

  I stagger to the door and open it. ‘Good God, Francis! I suppose we shall all be lost. What shall I do?’

  ‘It feels bad, miss, but we shall prevail. There is no danger. We have a land wind.’

  ‘What is a land wind?’

  ‘A wind that comes from the land, which will drive us out to sea. We shall be well when we have sea-room. Never fear and you lie still and do not leave your cabin on any account, miss.’

  The boy leaves me. I sit on my bed and lash myself with a scarf to a hook on the wall above it to stop myself falling out. The storm rages for hours and I hear one of the men scream and scream like a girl, which one I do not know – it could be one of the Gentlemen of Science, as it is in a cabin nearby, but some more screams come from above me – and I am startled by it and frightened to think that Francis had lied to appease me and we are all to be lost and those screaming men know it. But I act as I am told and do not leave my room. Once I put my head out of the door and hear the frightful rain beating down and the wind howling wonderfully strong and marvel at the power and force of nature. Yet the ship holds on and the dreadful tossing reduces to swaying and then to a more moderate swell. And finally there is another knock on my door and I call out, ‘I am well, Francis,’ and I open the door to find Captain Alex there, his wig gone, his hair sodden, plastered against his begrimed face and his clothes wet through. Yet he still stands upright and calm.