Mrs Fry had confirmed in general terms the impressions he’d already gained from his initial appraisal of his charges. The gaols only provided prisoners’ basic details, such as place of birth, age, trade and marital status — and even the veracity of those plain facts couldn’t always be relied upon — and a simple physical description of each prisoner, plus their crime, place of trial and sentence, so he appreciated any further knowledge he might glean from other sources. He would know his charges all too well by the time they landed at Sydney Cove, but it helped to learn as much as possible as early as possible.
He had first met Elizabeth Fry five years earlier, when he began superintending the ships transporting both female and male convicts. She had always been the person with whom to converse regarding the women, because of her frequent contact with them at Newgate. Not that they all came from Newgate — some were brought south from regional gaols and at least two ships per year sailed from Dublin — but many did.
She was a formidable woman, Elizabeth Fry, and without doubt an admirable one, though James was aware she had at times attracted criticism for wielding a political influence unbecoming to the fairer sex and for allegedly neglecting her duties as a wife and a mother. James didn’t know whether her banker husband and seven children suffered from her dedication to charitable work or not, but he admired what she set out to achieve. She was a philanthropist and an evangelist and over the past twenty years had, among other things, introduced schooling to Newgate Gaol, scripture lessons, sewing and knitting, female matrons rather than predatory male gaolers, and these last-minute farewell gestures to transportees. She had also attempted to ban gaming, swearing, begging, drinking and anything that even hinted at immorality, issuing edicts that had not, as far as James could deduce by the time he encountered the prisoners, translated particularly effectively into reality. The schools, too, came and went, so did the handcrafts, though the matrons had remained a fixture.
Other theories about prison reform were finding favour now and these days Mrs Fry was facing troubles of her own. Her once wealthy husband had been declared bankrupt in 1828 and it was rumoured that the Society of Friends could no longer summon the charity to welcome the family. But her influence as an activist and a prison reformer had extended beyond the bounds of England, and she had published a book only two years earlier setting forth her opinions on the government of female prisoners, based on her experiences, so even if her social status had slipped somewhat in Quaker circles, she continued to be celebrated for her efforts, both in England and on the European continent. She would not be an easy woman to dislodge from the path she believed she had been chosen to follow.
He didn’t consider himself to be a personal friend of Elizabeth Fry’s, more of a colleague, but he had always found her forthcoming when it came to matters regarding the female convicts’ welfare, which went some small way towards mitigating his herculean task.
This afternoon, for example, she’d had no hesitation in quite frankly pointing out which of his new charges might be expected to give trouble and which, in her opinion, could be helpful to him in various roles.
He unlocked the drawer in his desk and withdrew his copy of the ship’s muster list, together with a foolscap journal. A gift from his wife Emily, it was bound in the new-fashioned cloth — fittingly, she had chosen a navy-blue colour — and stamped with his name in gold leaf. Initially he’d been quite reluctant to sully its pristine, cream pages with descriptions of boils and catarrh and diarrhoea, but he knew Emily meant him to use it in his work, and once he’d filled the first few pages with his admittedly not very legible handwriting, the spell had been broken.
He reached into the drawer again, retrieved his bottle of Indian ink, a steel nib and the carved bone nib holder that had also been a gift from Emily, and lined them up on his desk. Experience had proven that Mrs Fry was a sound judge of character, so when she said that Liz Parker and her coterie were likely to cause the most trouble aboard ship, having already succeeded in ruling the roost in the women’s wing at Newgate, then they probably were. He opened the ink bottle, dipped his pen and wrote ‘Liz Parker’ on a fresh page. He wasn’t surprised; the woman certainly looked the part. There was a particularly unattractive toby jug he’d recently seen depicting a character named ‘Drunken Sal’: a hefty, bulldog-faced woman sitting with her knees apart, a glass presumably of gin in her hand, her arm resting on her ample belly. James wondered only half in jest if the Parker woman had sat for Davenport, the makers.
He then penned the names of the prisoners he had observed keeping company with Liz Parker, and whom Elizabeth Fry had confirmed to be her closest associates: Louisa Coutts, Ruth Bowler, Beth Greenhill, Mary Ann Howells and Becky Hoddle. They were all, he recalled, young, whereas Parker herself was middle-aged. He checked the manifest — yes, she was thirty-five years old. He wondered what the attraction could be. Perhaps the younger women were in need of a mother-figure: if so, he doubted that Liz Parker really was the most suitable candidate. Unsurprisingly, they had elected to mess together. He could attempt to split them up, he supposed, but to what real effect? They would only spread disorder among the rest of the prisoners, perhaps even managing to inspire rebellion. Or, away from Liz Parker’s influence, would they settle down? It was a difficult decision. No, better to have them all together in one small group where he, and Josiah Holland, could keep a close watch on them.
He massaged the back of his neck, feeling the muscles there knotted beneath his fingers. Suffering tension already — and the ship hadn’t even sailed out of the Thames! He was glad he had kept his hair short, though. He’d had to cut it during his last voyage after he’d caught head lice from the prisoners and had worn it that way since. Emily thought it very modern and said it made him look even more handsome, which made him smile, because he knew he wasn’t a handsome man at all.
He rotated his shoulders to relax them and bent again over his journal. The other name Elizabeth Fry had given him was that of Friday Woolfe, which had also not surprised him. With her unusual height, buxom figure and that abundant copper hair, she was the sort of female a man could not fail to notice, but it was her behaviour that had really caught his attention. Mrs Fry had insisted that the girl’s antics were every bit as disruptive as those of Liz Parker and her crowd, and they probably were, but James didn’t think Friday Woolfe and Liz Parker really shared much else. Friday Woolfe was common and cheeky and very irreverent, but he could not see any malice in her. Perhaps he was being a fool.
In fact, he was. During her examination, he’d smelt gin on her breath and she had suggested to him, none too discreetly, that a deal might be struck in which he might have access to her personal charms throughout the voyage in exchange for medicinal alcohol. His face flaming, he’d declined her offer, which she’d apparently found very entertaining. He should have reported both matters to the captain — the alcohol on her breath and the offered bribe — but he hadn’t. The girl had already suffered a night in one of the dreadful little cells in the hold and the ship hadn’t even left Woolwich. If she was a habitual drunkard she had probably brought alcohol on board with her, but that would soon run out. The captain had decided not to search for contraband; after months of living in Newgate the women would be experts at concealment and to find it all would require virtually stripping the ship back to her framework. There would be the usual shenanigans when Friday Woolfe, and no doubt a number of the other women, attempted to elicit alcohol from the crew, but James expected this. Many prisoners he’d superintended had demonstrated an unhealthy fondness for alcohol, particularly the gin they called Blue Ruin, which, as far as he could determine, did in fact ruin them. But the crew had been threatened with severe punishment if they obliged and the hatch to the prison deck would be locked every night, so their attempts would be in vain.
Friday Woolfe had come aboard in a group of four and they seemed determined to maintain closed ranks to the extent that they had resisted the addition of two extra women to their mess an
d had only got away with it because the numbers had worked in their favour. But James expected that would change once the Isla reached Portsmouth and the Bristol prisoners embarked. Josiah Holland seemed very fond of his precisely calculated shipboard schedules — and they were, truth be told, the only way to maintain any semblance of order — and if he wanted six women per mess, James was confident there would be six women per mess.
Included in Friday Woolfe’s quartet was Rachel Winter, so at least, in Woolfe, the young Winter girl would have a protector of sorts. The other two in the group were also interesting characters. During her initial medical examination, Sarah Morgan had struck James as somewhat sly — indeed, almost unnervingly intelligent. In fact, at the conclusion of the examination he’d been left with the uncomfortable sensation that he’d been interviewed by her, and it had been most disconcerting. She had very dark eyes and he had deliberately avoided looking into them — except for when he’d shone his torch at her retinae — because of an irrational notion that she would know what he was thinking. She was smart, very observant and, of the four, he suspected, most likely to be a professional criminal, a probability borne out by the fact that this was her second conviction.
She had been in reasonable health — undernourished and in need of sustained applications of sunlight and fresh air, but otherwise sound. The smarter inmates usually were the most hale. It was a sad fact that the mentally and physically unsound fared worst in the gaols, as often did the youngest, unless they found themselves a benefactor, as Rachel Winter had apparently managed to do.
Despite being felons, the prisoners he saw weren’t all criminals, in James’s opinion. For some, certainly, crime was a chosen way of life, but he was convinced from his dealings with both male and female convicts that not everyone who had the misfortune to find themselves in front of a judge had made a conscious decision to set out on a lifetime of criminal endeavour. The majority were ordinary labouring people, and many of them in ordinary — badly paid — employment. They broke the law because they couldn’t manage the rent, or feed their children, or repay their debts, or because the interminable misery of their lives drove them to make bad decisions.
Harriet Clarke, he had decided, was an example of that brand of convict. Her crime had been to steal a bit of cloth and thread, but up until that point she had evidently been a law-abiding girl, supporting her family working for a sempstress and hoping only for a better life for them all. Or so she had told him, and he believed her. Why shouldn’t he? She clearly didn’t have connections to any underworld criminals, she spoke well, could read and write and had nice manners, and she seemed mortified by what she had done. It had been a stupid, impetuous act, but he knew she could never otherwise have saved the money to fulfil her plans and, despite being a pretty girl, she probably couldn’t have married either — or, rather, co-habited, the arrangement many of the labouring poor seemed happy with — not with a sick mother and three young siblings in tow. Despite his natural distaste for her hopefully momentary lapse into sin, he felt sorry for her, which was why he had decided to choose her to be one of his hospital attendants. She struck him as being capable and steady; and the experience might boost her chances of securing a better assignment when she reached New South Wales.
James had also considered giving one of the positions to Rachel Winter, if only so he could keep an eye on her. The thought of what might follow should any of Holland’s crew take a fancy to her really did make him feel uneasy. But, frankly, she was barely more than a child and had seemed so flighty when he’d talked to her he didn’t think she would be suitable at all. He would have to rely on her messmates to look out for her. He had observed the way they hovered about her — like three mother ducks sharing one duckling — and suspected she would be as well chaperoned as she possibly could be.
In his journal he drew a line under Rachel Winter’s name, rolled his blotter over the ink, waited for it to dry, then closed the cover. All that was left for him to do now was organise the prisoners’ bathing and laundry session in the morning — it would be their first and last using fresh water, as only salt water would be available for bathing after they set sail — and check for the final time that the provisions had been stowed correctly and would not deteriorate during the voyage. Then he had to oversee the arrival and storage of his two special orders: one of medicinal leeches and the other of half a dozen bolts of coarse muslin for the women’s menstrual needs. Tomorrow evening he would introduce himself to the handful of free passengers when they embarked and after that he would go ashore and say goodbye, once again, to his poor, patient, long-suffering wife.
Seven
On the day before the Isla sailed from Woolwich, three things happened: the women of Newgate were ordered to bathe thoroughly; two disembarked in a somewhat memorable fashion; and the Isla’s six paying passengers came aboard.
Although the ship’s upper deck had still not yet been completely squared away, James Downey ordered that a framework of canvas be erected to screen off an area about ten feet square. Inside this enclosure Mr Meek and Amos Furniss placed two wooden tubs and sloshed into each six inches of water heated on the galley’s huge cast-iron stove. Captain Holland then ordered all sailors to work below deck, after which James instructed the mess captains to bring their women up one mess at a time.
Standing within the confines of the canvas cubicle fully dressed, her arms across her chest as though she were already naked, Harrie squinted up into the Isla’s rigging, not trusting that there wasn’t a sailor hiding up there, peeking down at them like a prurient, overgrown squirrel.
Friday, who already had her boots and stockings off, tested the water with her foot. ‘It’s actually warm! It’s lovely.’ Suddenly her smile dissolved. She turned to the others and said quietly, ‘Don’t undress. Don’t move.’
Casually, she bent and picked up a scrubbing brush, stepped towards the edge of the canvas enclosure and hurled it over the other side. There was a thump and a clatter, followed by a barrage of swearing, then Friday ducked out of the cubicle and took off, her bare feet pounding across the deck.
She was back a few minutes later. ‘That dirty bloody Furniss cove was peeking through the gap. I’ve told Downey. Furniss’ll be up before the master — you’ll see.’
‘Are you sure no one else will creep up on us?’ Harrie asked nervously, peering around at the cubicle screens as though expecting to see the entire crew lined up outside.
‘I am,’ Friday replied confidently. ‘Downey’s having a go at the tars now.’
She pulled her calico blouse over her head, yanked her skirt to her feet, wriggled out of her shift and stepped into the tub.
Everything about her was spectacular, Harrie thought enviously, trying not to look. Even her muscular tattooed arms had a garish sort of beauty about them and if her lovely white skin was marred in places by the purple smudge of healing sores, well, everyone had those. The pattern of fine silver lines on her gently curved belly, though, could only have been caused by one thing — Harrie had seen them often enough on her own mother’s stomach.
Rachel shrugged out of her clothes. ‘I’m having a good long soak. We won’t be getting fresh water to bathe in after this, will we, Friday?’
‘Wouldn’t think so.’ Friday reached for a square of soap left on an upturned bucket and energetically began to make a lather in her hands, her full breasts jiggling.
‘You’re not,’ Sarah said, hands on hips. ‘You’re to get in, wash, then get straight out. The other messes have to have a turn yet.’
Rachel, one foot in the tub and one out, glowered. ‘You’re not my mother.’
‘No, and thank Christ for that. But I am the mess captain — you elected me — so do as you’re told and hurry up.’
Rachel put both feet in the tub and stood there, sulking. Her white-blonde hair, a few shades lighter than her sparse bush, fell almost to her waist above round white buttocks. Her belly was flat and her breasts small and upturned. She looked like some
sort of grumpy little water nymph. Harrie, averting her eyes, passed her the soap.
‘Come on, Harrie, hurry up and get in.’ Sarah stripped off and stepped in beside Friday. ‘Christ, it’s not that warm. Not when you get your clobber off.’
‘I’m not.’ Harrie looked down at her boots.
‘Not what?’
‘Getting in.’
Friday stopped lathering her hair. ‘Why not? It’s your last chance of a decent wash for months. Not to mention your first. What’s the matter?’
Harrie risked an overt glance at the nude bodies of her three friends and bit her lip. If they were animals instead of girls, Friday would be a tiger, Rachel would be a new fawn and dark, slender Sarah would probably be something like an otter or a mink. Harrie strongly suspected she herself might be a hedgehog. She’d never been naked in front of them before. She’d never been naked in front of anyone, except her mother when she was a small child.
‘I don’t really feel that grubby,’ she lied.
‘Well, you smell it,’ Sarah said. ‘Come on, we won’t look. We promise.’
Harrie sighed: she knew she stank. She nodded reluctantly and waited until they’d turned away, then took a deep breath, undressed quickly and stepped into the tub next to Rachel. She looked down at herself, at her white body and her nipples sticking out like acorns because she was cold, and closed her eyes with embarrassment.
‘Oh, Harrie, you’ve a lovely little figure,’ Sarah said gently. ‘Really pretty.’
Harrie’s eyes flew open: they were all staring at her.
Friday grinned and handed her the soap. ‘What’s so special about you anyway, Madam Modest?’
Harrie couldn’t think of a valid answer. She started to laugh, which turned into a squawk of alarm when the cubicle’s canvas opening was whipped aside.
It was Matilda Bain. ‘Yous are to hurry up. We want our baths,’ she said, and let the canvas drop again.
Behind the Sun Page 13