‘I’m back, sir,’ said the maid, puffing, ‘with the fresh sheets.’
Mr Albercrombie glanced up, waving her over. ‘You may go now, Mrs Gould. I will take it from here. And, thank you.’
‘I’m next door if you need me.’ I passed the bowl to the maid, noticing that Mrs Albercrombie’s face was white as a sheet. But my assistance was no longer required. I returned to my room and attempted to resume my drawing. With all the lurching, the light inside the cabin was unstable, making it difficult for my eyes to focus. I considered paying a visit to the lower deck to see John and try to convince him to turn in for the evening. At times like this I had to wonder how he could prefer the company of bird’s grease and bones to comforting his wife. Had the unsteady conditions scattered his precious stuffing knives and packages of tow and cotton onto the floor? Were his tubs of innards and meat spilled, or did the storm risk contamination of the seabirds’ feathers with oil? Perhaps I needed to express in stronger language that plying his trade during a tempest did not agree with my state of mind as I lay in my empty berth, the wind whistling and unnamed objects battering and smashing above? I recalled Mrs Martin on deck with her husband when a bout of seasickness struck her. Mr Martin had rushed to his wife’s side, whispering into her ear, using his hat to fan her face. When all of a sudden she leaped up from her chair and ran to the ship’s railing, Mr Martin followed quickly behind, holding her hair from her face and patting her back while she was ill. He appeared to do his utmost to tend to his wife until she had exhausted herself and her sickness had passed.
The cabin lurched violently, spilling a jug of boiled water onto the heating mat. I blotted it with paper. The lamplight guttered and went out. The moths drying their wings in my stomach burst forth in a flurry. I touched the side of the cabin, felt for the row of hooks on which we hung our cloaks. Pulling on my robe and buttoning my cape, I forced my bonnet over my wild hair. I fumbled for the handle of the cabin door and hurled myself into the swaying, darkened corridor. I grasped the lower rung of the stairs and began to move towards the steerage deck. The lights still shone on this level, and I passed Benstead’s and Gilbert’s hammocks, knotted and hooked in place, their clothing, sacks and boots secured in a similar manner, swaying against the rafters.
The door to the stuffing cabin was closed, and I raised my hand to knock.
‘Mrs Gould?’ Benstead appeared wearing a leather apron smeared with bird fat.
I peered into the salty, sulphur-smelling room. Two shearwaters lay on the skinning boards, their bodies peeled and slit like fruit. My husband was instructing Benstead in the rudiments of his preserving craft. Gilbert stood near the water jugs, scraping meat off a skeleton with a scalpel. Anything that could travel a degree across the room had been secured by lengths of rope, the laboratory resembling a strange holding station. Various thicknesses of twine encircled the bellies of bottles filled with glass eyes and arsenic, supplies of cotton and wire. For the duration of the storm, their instruments were kept in leather wallets tucked into the belts of their aprons, a practicality adopted by my husband. John welcomed most difficulties and hitches, always brimming with ways to solve and make do.
‘Eliza!’ said John, lowering his brain-scooping instrument. ‘What are you doing here? You’re not dressed. Is something amiss?’ He advanced towards the door, moving out of the skinning room and into the passage.
‘There’s nothing the matter.’ I looked at him, hopeful that the need on my face might be plain. That I would not be required to express my suffering in words, that I would not have to beg him to reconsider his evening plans. ‘When will you come to bed?’ I whispered. The flame danced in its sconce, casting a pretty orange glow above his forehead.
‘I’m teaching Benstead to stuff so that I’ll have more time to spend in our cabin. Don’t think I enjoy all this blood-filled business. We have to see to the hoard before the ants and mites. You know how it is. It’s far worse than in London, on account of the heat.’
‘I look forward to your apprentice’s success,’ I said, leaning against the wall resignedly.
‘We’re all making progress. Gilbert has procured yet another new species.’ John turned, his hand moving towards the door.
‘I’ll see it tomorrow.’
‘Of course,’ he said, eyebrows raised, as if he were waiting for me to finish.
‘I can’t sleep, that’s all.’
He reached for my hand, folding his soiled fingers around my unshielded palms, and I tried not to think about the killed places they had entered. He kissed my hair.
Defeated, I bade him goodnight and walked along the narrow corridor towards my cabin. I had not gone seven paces when I heard a shrill cry from the top deck, followed by much banging and smashing. The albatross! Every jerk and pitch made by the barque had no doubt caused the animal to take fright and protest, as if it knew its situation was unsafe. Bound on our ship, the seabird was held against all its natural instincts, and its terror at being unable to escape its fate in this storm was unimaginable.
Drawn by an unseen force, I followed the bird’s call, feeling my way, walking quickly at first and then almost running to the foredeck.
‘William Coxen!’ I shouted, disbelieving my eyes. There, standing on either side of the birdcage, working hand-in-hand as if they were drawing a stuck bullock out of mud, were my nephew and son. They were easing off the levers that fixed the side and bottom components of the cage shut.
My shout was lost to the wind. The barque heaved and the albatross made an extraordinary flapping of its wings. The boys’ daring mesmerised me, and I became transfixed by indecision. A part of my mind was silently rejoicing, throwing my bonnet into the air like dropping ribbons at a regatta. Yes! I cheered to myself. Let it go. Hurry! Another part of me thickened with dread at the danger. What did my ill-behaved nephew think he was doing, leading his young cousin astray? A wave broke over the deck and Will and Henry were pushed back, Henry losing his balance and crashing against the capstan. Will sent out his arm, hauling his small cousin to his feet. He spoke into Henry’s ear and the two boys nodded. They were a sight in their undone boots, their coats pulled hastily over their nightshirts.
It was my chance to respond, to step out of the shadows and make it clear their actions were wrong. But my feet stuck to the oakum-caked boards as if a vine had reached out and furled its green stems around my calves.
I remembered an owlet nightjar John had caught when we broke our voyage on the Canary Islands. Will showed Henry how to set a trap each evening to catch mice and feed it, and he had charmed his young cousin with the suggestion of teaching the animal to pronounce their Christian names. One night, their pet had seen fit to drop its clutch from round its perch. The next morning it lay in the bottom of the cage, eyes shut, beak slightly open, stone-cold dead. John assured the boys there would be more of the same and not to fret, but they were upset at their pet’s demise. They had such plans for it. It was the final insult when John scooped up the nightjar’s carcass and despatched it into its various posthumous forms – dissection of its stomach contents, body meat passed to the scullery cat, skin stuffed for the drawer.
I watched from my hiding place as Will unscrewed the last of the stoppers and Henry lifted up the cage – I was stunned by the hidden strength in his seemingly flimsy young arms. Without meaning to, I moved from my cranny to seek a better look. The bird fixed its knowing black eyes on my brow. She was female. Though it was dark, I was close enough to make out the smear of pink along the side of her neck. She was mature, twenty or so years in age; I could tell by the markings on her wing feathers. Younger birds had less mottling. Will, wary, followed the bird’s gaze and found my eyes. I said not a word. My face stayed still as a mask. Henry remained oblivious, his attention on the albatross, who was resolutely staying put on her fishbone-strewed mat. She glanced over her back but did not lift a feather. A kind of calm had descended on the scene. On other voyages this magnificent creature, lured by a fish head, would be
put in a stew, her down turned into mattress and pillow stuffing, the pinion bones in her wings used for pipe stems, her bright pink feet dried and sewn into tobacco pouches. My husband would never subject her to such indignity. Under his ministrations, she would be transformed into a work of art.
I remembered my pity for Mrs Martin when she retreated in horror from the gunfire on deck. And yet, how did I abide this? I did my utmost to support John’s ambitions, but the way I blew about like a reed under his instruction was no cause for pride. If he so much as pressed me, I bent like a sea aster towards the light of his ideas. I imagined his hand, hovering unseen at my shoulder.
The ship pitched and I stumbled, grasping an overhanging hook and holding fast. The cage top came crashing to the ground. The albatross sought its opportunity, jumping onto the rail and throwing itself into the tempestuous night. It was suddenly whipped back on deck in an updraft and then, with a calibrated tuning of its wings, it found the right amount of lift, lurched itself overboard and was off.
Chapter 11
Welcome Swallow
Hirundo neoxena
Hobarton 1838
Hundreds of native swallows skimmed the surface of Port Davey Harbour. The coats on their backs sapphire, their beaks the shape of hairpin tips. The red smear on their breasts, some said, was caused by their attempts to remove the nails on Christ’s cross. Their forked tails were once whole, singed from carrying tiny buckets to douse a temple fire in Jerusalem. Like seamstresses’ scissors, they snipped and cut the imaginary boundary between the water’s surface and the air above. Fearless, they swept through the Parsee’s network of rigging, making steep curves, gliding alongside a fraying sail only to change course, diving at neck-breaking speed towards the harbour’s unfathomed depths. Just when you thought they would disappear, a suicidal rain of birds banked and turned, choosing a different direction. It was as if the squally conditions of Hobarton attracted the animals, as if they picked up the electrical thread preceding a storm. What compelled them to swim-fly so near the briny water’s surface? Was the air temperature cooler, or did the current somehow buffet their tiny bodies? Was it a sort of game, such as children play, for the sheer delight of the body’s surrender to movement, friction, space? A celebration of their skills in flying? Locked onboard a ship for five long months, how I envied the swallows’ freedom.
I glanced up at my husband. He, too, had been enchanted by their antics and was following their erratic course.
We had been summoned to the weather deck, mashed against the rails awaiting the signal to disembark. Our son, alert as the mess puss, crouched between us. His eyes were round as pennies, trying, as we all were, to interpret the moody skyline.
The Southern Ocean had rough-handled the Parsee into the mouth of the Derwent, making me and many of my fellow passengers regret breakfast, so I gave quiet thanks for the calm channels of the serpentine river. My seasickness subsided against a backdrop of rugged inlets and coves, of fishing trawlers with hidden nets sunk to trap shrimp, lobster and fish. In the distance rose Mount Wellington, a slumbering ogre, dense brushes clinging like hair along its flanks, its summit obscured behind a palette of cloud.
‘We must remember not to eat the swallow,’ said John, winking at me and ruffling Henry’s hair.
‘Why not, Papa?’ Henry asked.
‘Because we’re on water,’ John replied. ‘There’s a fisherman’s tale that says one must not sail after eating a meal of roasted swallow, for fear of waking the Kraken. The Kraken—’
‘You know what the Kraken is, Henry?’ I interrupted.
‘Yes,’ said my son, looking doubtful.
‘The Kraken loves roasted swallow more than any other dish in the world, particularly as it was hard for the monster to come by. It could smell swallow on a sailor’s breath. And it would rise from the depths and coil its tentacles around the ship, probing and slithering, until it found the guilty party.’
Henry’s eyes widened as he stood in silence, no doubt vowing never to touch a swallow again. But he was soon distracted from these dark stories. ‘What is that?’ asked Henry, gesturing to a timber-hulled vessel moored in the lock opposite the Parsee. Its bow was studded with crude bolts, its sails oil-grimed.
‘It’s a transportation ship,’ said Will, pleased to possess a fact about Van Diemen’s Land of which his cousin was unaware. ‘For convicts.’
‘What’s a convict, Mama?’ asked Henry.
‘A thief, a murderer, a liar,’ said Will with delight.
‘How horrid,’ said Henry, pressing against my side.
‘Only the very worst criminals are sent to Van Diemen’s Land,’ said John.
‘Whatever crimes they have committed, it is said that they are treated very poorly. They are to be pitied,’ I said.
It seemed the vessel would never cease disgorging its wretched cargo. Diabolical curses followed a centipede constructed of bony-legged men and women, stooped of back, grey-skinned, hollow of cheek, unkempt and unwashed. They shuffled, heads bent downwards, hair hacked with shears, dressed in calico shirts and canvas trousers. Their ankles collared in iron, each chained to the next, wounds weeping. I thought of honeyeaters, their legs crossed and tied together over their tails, shelved in our drawers in identical rows. A redcoat bearing a musket prodded the entity forward.
‘Do not stare, Will and Henry,’ I chided. ‘Let’s listen for the call to disembark.’
Had the convicts kept their souls, I wondered? Or did the gulls with wingspans large as petrels, keening above the naked masts of the docked ships, swoop in as they made their crossing onto land, snatching away the last nuggets of their humanity?
A whistle shrilled and we joined the rest of the passengers beginning to funnel towards the Parsee’s narrow gangway. Chock and bitt were cabled to wharf post. The southerly blew Mary’s and my skirts against our legs. I tightened the shawl around my shoulders and retied the ribbons of my bonnet, regretting my choice of its frilly prettiness over my hardy day bonnet, which would have better stood the whiplashing. My lips were dry and my cheeks chapped from the twin workings of sun and gale. I felt a drop of moisture land on my nose and glanced beyond the freighters and liners, affirming that the cloud coating the mountain had dispersed, spreading like floss over the hills beyond the river.
When the signal came that it was safe to disembark, we traipsed in a weary gaggle over the narrow bridge leading from the Parsee to the wharves and the village of Hobarton, to the island of Van Diemen’s Land.
‘Steady me, John,’ I said, unable to keep the broad smile from my lips.
‘Is this not marvellous?’ asked my husband.
‘Surely, yes!’ Ribbons of feeling swirled within me: anticipation and excitement, curiosity as to the discoveries that lay in wait for us, and a curl of trepidation at the settlement’s unknown customs and mores.
I sighed in deep satisfaction, raising my eyes to the gannets flapping above, diving now and again into the waters of the harbour for food. They were the largest of their kind that I had yet encountered, shrieking like cats as the boisterous wind slammed them hither and thither, their webbed grey feet dangling like starfish from sea rope.
John and I led the party, Mary steering Henry behind us and Gilbert, Will and Benstead bringing up the rear. Almost in disbelief, I put my shoe to the scrubbed decking of the wharf. I had hardly gathered my bearings when we were surrounded by soot-grimed porters, clamouring for the men’s attention.
‘Out of the way,’ John shouted, motioning for a particularly bold fellow, who had made a grab for his elbow, to step aside.
Gilbert moved to insulate Mary and me, Benstead signalling a uniformed port officer for directions to the ladies’ waiting room. Elbows linked, our menfolk marched us from the tumultuous wharves into a low-roofed stone building. The shed was hot and dank, every bench taken by perspiring lady travellers and their children. Boys selling cheese sandwiches and tea wove between the weary women, insisting that we see to our replenishment.
‘Where’s Henry?’ I asked, concerned.
‘He’s outside with Gilbert. He’ll be all right. Do him good to stretch his legs. I’ll have someone fetch you up when we’re ready.’
Reluctantly I agreed, though sitting around like a stuffed pickle in the crowded shed seemed a decidedly unappealing business. Not that I imagined involving myself in negotiating tariffs for our accommodation, but I was restless. After such a long time at sea, I was yearning to set out and explore this brave new world. I needed to move about; I wanted for occupation, to discover for myself a little of Hobarton, well away from the hectic port.
Mary pointed to the ground, in time for me to side-step a murky puddle. We had decided to rebel and sneak away to explore our new surroundings. First, we had to make our way out of the docks, negotiating a bustling chaos of carts and porters. Vessels bearing building materials, tools and luxuries unavailable in the colony were unloaded, sweating men jostling with one another to ferry the endless cargo of crates, trunks and chests. The cases were piled onto wagons and the tops of coaches, making towers that swayed precariously until the drivers slung ropes through hooks and tied the loads down. A whistle, a shout, a slap on the rump of a blinkered nag, and the laden vehicles set off, their wheels negotiating the uneven road.
‘Isn’t this exciting?’ asked Mary, her elbow linked in mine.
‘Oh, it is,’ I said, drawing a deep breath. ‘Though you must remember I’m new to this. I require your expertise as a bold adventuress in faraway lands.’
‘Let’s just follow our noses and see what we find, then,’ said Mary.
We wandered east along Davey Street, seemingly the town’s principal thoroughfare. Nearest the port, the road was lined with a clutter of simply designed sandstone buildings that had peaked rooves and high shuttered windows, facing out to the sparkling harbour. Many were hotels and boarding houses, with chalked signs set near their entrances to advertise vacancies and tariffs.
Birdman's Wife Page 16