But he was the naval surgeon, and the navy represented the government, and the government was paying. And to tell the truth he wasn’t really averse to sharing authority with James Downey, who seemed a decent enough chap, at least when it came to matters not concerning the running of the ship. The less he himself had to do with these women, the better. Last night Downey had gone ashore so it had fallen to him to sort out the fracas below deck and it had been like stepping down into hell.
Apparently now, thank God, the prisoners intended to limit their protestations to weeping and whining, so he stomped down the companion ladder from the afterdeck and into his cabin.
‘Pompous bloody arsehole,’ Sarah hissed.
They stood where they were, stunned by the captain’s announcement regarding their early departure from Woolwich, until the first mate shouted at them to go below again.
Rachel threw herself onto their bunk and declared, ‘Well, I’m not cleaning the bogs. I’ve had enough of shit.’ She put her pillow over head and started to cry.
‘I think we’ll all be having a turn,’ Harrie remarked, forcing false cheer into her wobbling voice. ‘It sounds like everyone’s going to be on Mr Downey’s rosters.’ She busied herself straightening a blanket, then she, too, began to weep.
For a fleeting moment Friday considered volunteering to take Rachel’s place on the bog-cleaning roster, just to cheer her up, but there were limits even to her generosity. She felt desperate for her, though, as Rachel’s family would certainly have come to Woolwich to see her off if they’d had the chance. Friday knew, too, that Rachel still believed somewhere down in the very core of her being that her soldier would come to save her at the last minute. But he’d better hurry up, because now he only had three days left.
Rachel and Harrie weren’t the only ones weeping. Distressed murmurs then cries rose around them as the true impact of Captain Holland’s announcement sank home; in only seventy-two hours the Isla would sail and most aboard her would never see England or their loved ones again. A great wave of grief seemed to engulf the prison deck as women keened and wept and tugged at their hair, so when a single voice screamed in terror, no one at first noticed it.
The scream resounded again, higher and sharper this time; the lamenting and anguished praying in the cabin faltered and the women one by one quietened. The silence disclosed a dreadful, low-pitched grinding noise emanating from the floorboards towards the bow.
Matilda Bain wailed, ‘Lord have mercy, we’re sinking!’
No one moved for perhaps two seconds, then fresh screams erupted followed by a panicked stampede for the ladder, which was immediately jammed with shoving, scratching, shrieking women. Those who reached the top became wedged so firmly in the hatchway that the sunlight was blocked. The grinding noise continued and the ship, horrifyingly, tilted slightly to port.
Friday grabbed Rachel, who, being so small, had found herself forced to the floor by the crush of struggling bodies, and hauled her along, her boots barely touching the deck, towards the hatch, violently elbowing others out of the way. Harrie and Sarah followed directly in her wake, doing their share of shoving and screaming, scared witless of not getting out before the ship went down.
A pistol shot rang out, sharply audible above the terrified weeping and cries for mercy. Suddenly silenced, the women crowding the ladder froze, there was a second’s hiatus, then they awkwardly untangled themselves and backed down a step or two, followed by Captain Holland, silhouetted against the light.
‘Get back to your berths, all of you, and remain there!’
‘Have mercy, sir!’ someone entreated. ‘Please! Do not drown us!’
The master turned his attention to the deck above him, listened, heaved a great, vexed sigh, then retreated. Mr Downey appeared in his place and gently but firmly cleared everyone off the companion ladder.
Raising his hands in a calming gesture, he said loudly so everyone could hear, ‘There is no need to panic, the ship is not sinking. I say again, the ship is not sinking! The noise you can hear is simply the sound of the anchor being raised. Captain Holland has ordered that the ship be towed a short distance out into the Thames for our remaining time here.’
‘Bugger,’ Sarah said in Friday’s ear, ‘if that’s all it was we could have had a go at grabbing our money.’
‘What for? Why are we being towed?’ Liz Parker demanded in an attempt to re-establish her authority, having been one of the first to reach the companion ladder during the panic.
‘To minimise opportunities for escape,’ James Downey replied, clearly seeing no need for obfuscation.
Muttering and the beginnings of indignation and protest began as the women made their way back to their bunks.
‘That’s me buggered, then,’ Friday said to Harrie.
Harrie gasped. ‘Were you going to try to escape?’
Friday laughed at the look of shock on her friend’s face. Laughing felt good and it helped to ease the terrible rate at which her heart still galloped at the thought of being trapped inside the ship as it filled with cold, murky water and dragged her down into the mud beneath the Thames.
‘Doubt it. I’d go straight to the bottom with all that gin tied round my neck.’
James Downey treated one broken wrist, a severely sprained ankle, multiple cuts and bruises and two cases of hysteria after the anchor-raising incident. He also had a heated discussion with Josiah Holland in the privacy of the captain’s cabin about his not having informed the prisoners that the Isla was about to be towed away from the quay. The captain, feeling guilty, argued that he shouldn’t have to inform a cargo of convict women of every single order he gave; James countered by pointing out that probably not one of them had been aboard a tall ship before — of course they would panic if it suddenly rattled and rumbled and shifted beneath them. He also suggested that the women would more likely behave if they were made aware of what to expect, and when, rather than be subjected to frightening surprises.
‘I told them what to expect,’ Captain Holland insisted. ‘You were there.’
‘You told them what their domestic schedule is to be and what they are prohibited from doing.’
The captain made a hurrumphing noise. ‘You speak of them as though they’re first-class passengers I should be inviting to dine at my table. They are not, Mr Downey, they are convicted felons. Whores and thieves. No doubt both.’
James silently asked God to forgive him for evoking His name for advantage. ‘Do you consider yourself to be a Christian man, Captain?’
‘What?’ Josiah Holland looked startled.
‘I do, sir,’ James went on earnestly. ‘I know already from our short acquaintance that you harbour deeply Christian principles. You must forgive me for being so impertinent as to suggest this, and for suggesting it so bluntly, but you could demonstrate those principles handsomely by exhibiting a little charity. Think of Our Lord’s example: He associated with the lowest of the low.’
The captain’s already pink face flushed with indignation. After a moment, however, perhaps recalling that James had as much authority as he did on this voyage, he gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘What are you suggesting, Mr Downey?’
‘Just that they be treated with some small amount of dignity. This is, after all, to be their home for the next four months. And we are in fact departing Woolwich with uncommon speed. Many of them will not have had time to farewell family and friends and will be suffering because of it.’ James raised a hand to ward off the captain’s interruption. ‘I’m well aware that the winds and tides are favourable and that we should take advantage of them. I am a naval man myself, you will recall. And obviously I’m not suggesting we consult the prisoners about every matter — you are of course the master of this ship — but if they know at least that they are in no immediate danger, they may feel less…wretched, and therefore be easier to manage.’ He hurried on as the captain again opened his mouth to interject. ‘And yes, we must abide by the rules — yours and mine — and administer puni
shment when necessary. Christian charity can only carry us so far! We can’t have individuals running amok, or cliques holding sway over the prison deck. But I’m convinced that given the opportunity, most of these women will respond to kindness and consideration.’
Clearly unconvinced, Josiah Holland raised his wiry eyebrows. ‘And if they don’t?’
James met his gaze steadily. ‘Then at least we will have done the Christian thing.’
On the afternoon two days prior to the Isla’s departure from Woolwich, the women of Newgate received a small party of visitors. The women, allowed on deck for hours at a time now that the ship had anchored farther out into the Thames, watched as a wherry rowed by a straining waterman approached across the river’s choppy surface. Seated in the centre were three women, heads bowed against the stiff breeze, hands gripping the brims of their plain grey bonnets.
‘It’s Elizabeth Fry,’ Sarah said as she leant on the ship’s rail. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of her.’
‘I didn’t,’ Harrie said, who had a lot of respect for Mrs Fry and the Ladies’ Newgate Committee. ‘I knew they’d come if they could.’
Sarah gave Harrie a sour look but said nothing. She didn’t altogether trust Mrs Fry and her ilk. The campaigner was a Quaker, and it was true that her work had improved conditions for women in Newgate Goal, but Sarah wasn’t overly impressed with the price extracted for those improvements — endless bible readings, the singing of hymns and allegiance to a God she didn’t have much time for. Harrie was quite religious and prayed every day and what have you, and Sarah didn’t begrudge her that at all. Perhaps it was the praying that made her the cheerful, calm and persistently helpful person she was, but probably not; she suspected Harrie had been born with those qualities.
But it wasn’t Sarah’s cup of tea at all. Her mother and father had been extremely religious, but it had done her mother no good in the end and her father had made a complete mockery of it. She, Sarah, had prayed a lot when she had been younger. In fact, she’d prayed so much she’d just about worn the skin off her knees, but no one had heard her. No one at all. So why did God listen to some of his flock and not others? She’d thought about the matter at length and found it hugely confusing and demoralising. Either Christians were misguided, or it was all a great, festering heap of lies; an immense fabrication, designed to catch people like a spider traps insects in a sticky web. But did that make God a spider? Perhaps it did, because spiders did horrible things to the prey they caught and Sarah had certainly seen some horrible things happen to people in her time.
The waterman manoeuvred the wherry alongside the Isla’s hull and the bosun’s chair was lowered. He drew in his oars, laid them safely in the bottom of the wherry and held the chair steady. From above the sight was somewhat comical as Mrs Fry slipped the ropes of the chair over her bonneted head and eased the narrow seat under her considerable bottom. But no one laughed, for she was generally respected among the women of Newgate, if not always appreciated, had gone to considerable effort to be ferried out to the ship and was putting herself at real risk using the bosun’s chair. The women, hanging over the rail and cheering Mrs Fry on, applauded as the chair was hoisted up, sending her stout, cape-wrapped body twirling slowly and swinging from side to side like a roosting bat.
The rope was deftly snagged with the aid of a boat hook and Mrs Fry pulled in and deposited safely on the deck, nothing more askew than her bonnet, which she quickly straightened. Captain Holland greeted her with exaggerated courtesy, then stood at her side in silence while her lady friends were winched inelegantly up from the wherry. That achieved without incident, he rather stiffly invited them to his cabin for refreshments.
‘Thank you very kindly, Captain,’ Mrs Fry said in a refined but authoritative voice. ‘Unfortunately I fear we cannot spare the time for social niceties. You sail on the morning tide, I understand? Then we would like to begin our work immediately. I’m sure you also have much still to do.’ She gestured at the pair of trunks that had followed her companions up from the wherry. ‘We have brought with us parting gifts for the women from the Society and we would like to deliver them personally. Just tokens, but we hope they will remind the women of all they have learnt under our tutelage during their time at Newgate.’
‘Yes, of course. Lots to do. I understand,’ Captain Holland said, relieved. He turned to his first mate. ‘Mr Warren, get the prisoners below then see that Mrs Fry has everything she needs. Mrs Fry, would you care for Mr Downey to accompany you?’
‘Thank you, no. Though I would appreciate a moment or two of your time, Mr Downey, before we depart, if I may?’
James touched the brim of his hat. ‘Of course, madam, at your service.’ He had a few things he wanted to ask Mrs Fry himself.
Sitting on their bunks, having been herded below by a bossy Mr Warren, the women watched Mrs Fry as, with some difficulty, she negotiated the companion ladder down onto the prison deck. Being a plain Quaker, her skirts were by no means full, but even so her costume was considerably more substantial than anything they wore and she hesitated on each rung, placing her smartly booted feet heedfully and gripping the rope tightly.
When she reached the bottom, she adjusted her cape, which had slid slightly sideways, and clapped her gloved hands twice, demanding and receiving attention.
‘Good afternoon, ladies. I trust you have settled in?’
There was a chorus of ‘yes, ma’ams’ as she made her way down the aisle between the table and the bunks on one side of the deck, and back again up the other. Having done her ‘rounds’, she sat down. Above her a lamp swung gently, its smoky yellow light illuminating first one section of the cabin, then another. It also fell directly onto Mrs Fry’s head, the shadow cast by her bonnet relieved only by the bright gleam of her eyes; the only clear lines the contours of her jowls and strong nose.
‘You all know that some of you will not be returning to England,’ she said frankly and loudly, her voice carrying to all corners of the deck. There were a few stifled sobs at that. ‘But remember, the Lord goes with you, wherever you may travel, and wherever you may make your homes; He is your Saviour and is available to you every day upon this earth. But remember this, too: hard work, clean habits, honesty, moral fortitude and a contribution to society will encourage His spirit to work freely within you and to shine through you. A return to the poorly lit paths of yesterday, paths that have led you to this ship, which very soon is to take you far from your homes and loved ones, will surely see you once again lost in a spiritual wilderness and without hope. So, ladies, take these gifts we have for you, use them and enjoy them, and remember the lessons you have learnt.’
At that Mrs Fry’s companions opened the trunks that had been laboriously hefted down the ladder by Mr Warren and his men and began to pass every woman a drawstring bag of black cloth.
Sarah looked inside hers. It contained a bible, several additional religious tracts, a comb, a piece of soap, and a square of felted wool folded over two needles, blue thread, white thread, a length of inexpensive ribbon and six buttons. She felt slightly annoyed by the gift, even though she could do with the comb and the soap. She would give the needlework things to Harrie, but had no intention whatsoever of opening the bible. She didn’t take charity, had never asked for it and never expected it. She was also irritated by her response, which she knew was a churlish and ungrateful one.
Rachel peered over her shoulder. ‘What did you get?’
Sarah showed her.
‘That was nice of them, wasn’t it?’ Rachel sniffed her soap. ‘What’s that funny smell?’
‘Palm oil,’ Friday told her. ‘It’s marine soap. Lathers in salt water.’
‘How do you know so much about being at sea?’ Harrie asked.
Sarah laughed. ‘Because she spends such a lot of time with sailors.’
‘They talk to me,’ Friday said. ‘It’s not all trousers down and skirts up, you know.’
‘Oh, I never thought that,’ Harrie replied quick
ly.
‘Yes, you did,’ Friday said, laughing herself now.
Sarah handed her sewing kit to Harrie. ‘You know I’m not much use with a needle. If you do the sewing, I’ll do the stealing.’
‘Sarah,’ Harrie admonished.
‘Harrie,’ Sarah said back, grinning. She felt the weight of someone’s gaze on her and turned to see Mrs Fry watching her. She smiled politely. No, she definitely wouldn’t be opening her new bible.
The second trunk turned out to be crammed with pieces of cloth of various colours and lengths, with which, Mrs Fry informed them all, they could busy themselves during the voyage sewing clothes to wear when they arrived in New South Wales. She then asked them to join her in prayer and the singing of two or three spirit-raising psalms before she said goodbye to them all for the last time.
Sarah bowed her head, but she didn’t pray. At her side Rachel did, mumbling away like the child she almost was and belting out the words to the psalms but staying nicely on key, enjoying herself. Harrie had a pretty singing voice, too. Friday didn’t, and she sang — as she did everything — loudly. After a verse or two more, Friday’s vocal efforts deteriorated even further. Sarah risked a quick glance at her; Friday stared resolutely ahead, refusing to meet her eye. Then came a wink so fleeting it almost wasn’t there. The volume of Friday’s voice increased a decibel or two and slipped off another half-key. Rachel began to giggle.
Mrs Fry’s brows descended until they almost met in the middle, but she refrained — deliberately, Sarah suspected — from looking up from her psalm book. At the psalm’s conclusion, Mrs Fry thankfully decided that two would suffice.
James waited politely until the waterman had struck out for the quay, then turned on his heel and returned to his cabin.
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