Behind the Sun

by Deborah Challinor

  It took almost four hours and twenty tub refills for all the women and children to bathe — longer than James Downey had expected. Those who refused had to be threatened with suspended rations until they succumbed. Once at sea, the prisoners would perform a quick, daily ablution on deck using a bucket of sea water, but he’d insisted they bathe properly this once to rid themselves of the filth and vermin of the gaol before they set sail. Laundering of their civilian clothes would have to wait now until they were underway as Holland’s crew could not put to sea tomorrow with the deck festooned with drying washing, and it could not be taken below in a wet state, where it would immediately sprout mould.

  Much to their disappointment, the women were sent to their berths when the last of the Isla’s passengers were rowed out to her mooring, hoisted aboard via the bosun’s chair and installed in the four available cabins. James Downey, however, and an inwardly grudging Captain Holland, who couldn’t care less about paying passengers as long as they did pay, were on deck to receive them.

  The Reverend Octavius Seaton, a minister with the Church Missionary Society, came up first. A fleshy man of medium height with red cheeks that looked scraped rather than shaved, he dismounted inelegantly from the chair and staggered about briefly in response to the rolling of the Isla’s deck. Taking pity on him, James held his elbow in a steadying grip as they waited for Mrs Seaton to appear. She was even more stout than her husband, and required the assistance of two crewmen to get off the chair, though James noted that for such a round woman she had an improbably neat waist. This was surprising as he had always assumed that vanity — including the overt use of corsets — was frowned upon among clergy in the CMS.

  Reverend and Mrs Seaton’s daughters followed: two rather attractive, cinnamon-haired girls of thirteen and eleven, each spinning around in the chair and giggling, much to their mother’s disapproval. Introduced to James and the captain as Eudora and Geneve respectively, they stood on the deck, the brims of their bonnets catching the wind, eyes bright, gazing excitedly about.

  Next to board was a young man who swung agilely off the bosun’s chair and offered a hand first to Josiah Holland then James, introducing himself as Matthew Cutler. He was smartly if not flashily dressed in light-coloured trousers, white shirt and a well-cut frock coat with matching waistcoat; he looked, James thought, vaguely uncomfortable, as though the whole outfit were new and he wasn’t accustomed to wearing it. He had rather exuberant sandy hair, bright blue eyes and a ready smile. James liked him immediately.

  The final passenger to board was Gabriel Keegan, the last entry on the ship’s manifest. At twenty-six he was a year older than Matthew Cutler, tall and athletic in build and possessed what James expected women would regard as striking looks in the form of dark eyes, a strong nose and jaw and black hair. He also evidently favoured dressing in the style made fashionable by Beau Brummell, but James saw no reason to hold that against him. For his first afternoon aboard the Isla, Keegan was wearing white trousers tapered at the ankles and disappearing into square-toed shoes, a smart linen shirt with a standing collar, a silk cravat tied in an intricate arrangement, a cutaway coat with a shawl collar and patterned waistcoat, and a rather tall top hat, which James suspected would end up in the sea if Mr Keegan wasn’t vigilant. Costume aside, Gabriel Keegan seemed a positive sort, cheerfully introducing himself to the crew and offering to help carry luggage to the cabins as it was winched aboard.

  James spent the next hour assisting the new passengers to settle into their cabins. The two single men seemed happy enough with their tiny quarters: each measured roughly six feet by five and was fitted with a single narrow bunk bed, a console on which to write that opened to reveal a mirror and wash basin, a chair, shelves and a porthole.

  Mrs Seaton, on the other hand, was horrified, though the other two cabins were a little larger, declaring that she couldn’t possibly be expected to live in such cramped quarters for up to four months. Matters weren’t improved when Reverend Seaton announced, clearly without prior discussion with his wife, that he intended to appropriate one of the two for himself, as he required the extra space to meditate, write sermons and spread out his scriptures. At this, Mrs Seaton looked distinctly mutinous and the daughters didn’t look much happier, so James retired and left them to it.

  When he returned to request they attend the hospital for their medical examinations, necessary even though they were free passengers, he noted that the matter seemed to have been settled, and that Mrs Seaton and her girls had indeed settled into one cabin together while the reverend had magnanimously taken the smaller of the two available for himself. The girls, James noted, would be sleeping in officers’ hammocks strung from the ceiling of their quarters — quite a good idea, actually, as, in his experience aboard ship, hammocks were more practical and comfortable than a bed.

  The medical examinations revealed nothing unexpected or alarming. Reverend Octavius Seaton, aged thirty-nine, had the physical constitution of a man ten years older: he was overweight, had gout and a skin complaint in the order of psoriasis around the elbows, knees and groin area but was otherwise in reasonable health. He had, he told James chattily during the examination, high hopes of rising through the church’s hierarchy, seeing himself perhaps as Samuel Marsden’s right-hand man in the not-too-distant future, now that his reverence was getting on in years, even if that meant having to go somewhere Godforsaken like New Zealand for a little while, like poor Henry Williams had. He understood, of course, that his goals were of a magnitude that could not be achieved overnight, but in the meantime there were souls to be saved, good works to be done and plenty of acreage to be acquired in this wonderful new land of opportunity. Indeed, James said, and made a note to prepare two and half drachms of chrysophanic acid with ten drops of oil of bergamot in a simple ointment for Reverend Seaton to apply to his private parts.

  Hester Seaton wasn’t as scaly as her husband, but she was slightly fatter. On her, though, the flesh was marginally more appealing, lending her otherwise unremarkable features a sort of pillowy pink bloom, further enhanced by her abundant caramel brown hair, of which — again unlike a good missionary — she seemed very proud. She was thirty-three, she declared, and flushed and simpered when James asked whether there was any likelihood she might be expecting a confinement.

  ‘Oh, no, my child-bearing years are well behind me,’ she replied, giggling as though James had told a particularly clever joke.

  James wondered why, if she was only thirty-three. One of the women he’d examined the other day who would deliver during the voyage was thirty-seven.

  ‘Are there any physical matters you have concerns about?’

  ‘No, I’ve always been blessed with good health.’ A shadow passed across Mrs Seaton’s face and she looked down at her chubby hands. ‘Our first child died, when he was only five months old. George Edwin, we named him. He contracted whooping cough.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs Seaton,’ James said. He was, too, but it was a rare family that hadn’t experienced the death of an infant, no matter its social rank.

  He examined Mrs Seaton’s eyes, ears and mouth, noting she was missing several back teeth and had evidence of gum disease, which wasn’t at all uncommon, and palpated her limbs, belly and internal organs. Nothing was amiss, except for the extra weight she was carrying.

  ‘You do seem to be in good health, Mrs Seaton, as you attest. I would suggest, however, that you take every opportunity to walk about the deck that presents itself.’

  Hester Seaton took the hand James offered to assist her off the examination table. ‘Why would that be, Mr Downey? Surely you are not suggesting that I need to be mindful of my figure?’

  James couldn’t tell if her question was posed in a jocular spirit or not. He suspected it wasn’t. ‘Not at all, Mrs Seaton. I’m advising all charges to exercise whenever possible, even those as hale as you clearly are. Enforced inertia can actually be very demanding on the constitution. Now, I assume you wish to chaper
one your daughters during their examinations?’

  Hester Seaton did. Both Eudora and Geneve were rudely healthy. Geneve had a slight cough, but it had come on only recently and Mrs Seaton thought it was nothing more than the result of a chill caught travelling in the coach down to London from their home town of Watford. James listened to Geneve’s chest and agreed.

  ‘If it worsens, or does not improve, tell me and we’ll begin a course of treatment.’

  Geneve had seen the jars where James kept his leeches, their currently pin-thin bodies pressed slimily against the glass, and her face paled slightly. ‘Will it be leeches?’ she asked almost in a whisper. ‘I don’t like leeches.’

  ‘No, no, it will be an oral medicine and plasters, something of that sort,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Now, girls, I would like a moment alone again to speak with your mother.’

  Mrs Seaton sat with her eyebrows raised in polite interest until her daughters had gone.

  James decided she had probably seen enough of the world to appreciate a direct approach. ‘Forgive me for saying so, Mrs Seaton, but I couldn’t help noticing that Eudora has reached a stage in her physical development that suggests she is no longer a child.’

  ‘Physically she has become a young woman, yes,’ Mrs Seaton said warily. ‘But she is still a child at heart.’

  ‘Of course, and so she should be. But she is an attractive girl and so is her sister, and we — and a number of perhaps unprincipled sailors — are about to embark upon a long sea voyage. It pains me to say this, but I strongly recommend that you accompany them at all times.’

  Hester Seaton’s mouth puckered in distaste: she obviously knew to what he was referring.

  ‘Confine them to the foredeck during the day, unless you are with them, and certainly do not allow them to leave your cabin at night.’

  ‘Of course not!’

  James sighed and wondered how best to couch what he wanted to convey without causing offence. ‘It isn’t just the crewmen, Mrs Seaton. Some of the prisoners may not take kindly to the sight of two smartly dressed young ladies promenading about. They can, on occasion, be…unpredictable.’

  Hester Seaton brightened. ‘Oh, I do understand, Mr Downey. I have studied the phenomenon of women in prison at some length, you know, and I have a copy of Mrs Fry’s marvellous Observations. Have you read it?’

  ‘Er, yes, I have.’

  Mrs Seaton clasped her hands and raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘“Punishment is not for revenge, but to lessen crime and reform the criminal.” A wonderful quote of hers. I use it often. And I was delighted to discover that we were to sail with an entire shipload of female convicts because, you see, it has always been my ambition to work with poor wretches less fortunate than myself, and now it seems as though God has steered me directly onto my chosen path. “Oh Lord, may I be directed what to do and what to leave undone.” Another quote from Mrs Fry — and such a very apt one, in my case!’

  James was slightly nonplussed; in his view Eudora and Geneve’s safety was a far weightier topic than their mother’s philanthropic ambitions. But then Mrs Seaton — presumably — didn’t know sailors, or indeed convicts, like he did.

  ‘That’s very commendable, Mrs Seaton, and I’m sure the prisoners will benefit from any contribution you might make to their welfare during the voyage. However, I do reiterate that your daughters’ safety is paramount.’ James had a sudden, excellent idea. ‘Perhaps you could employ one of the women, one of the younger, better educated ones, as a companion for the girls?’

  Hester Seaton looked at him, unable to disguise a faint expression of horror. ‘One of the convicts, you mean? With my girls? In our cabin? Oh, no, I don’t think so.’ She stood in a rustle of skirts. ‘Thank you, Mr Downey. Good day.’

  Matthew Cutler and Gabriel Keegan were, as James had suspected they would be, fine physical specimens and in the best of health. Matthew, twenty-five years old, was bound for a position with the New South Wales Government Architect in Sydney, and very much, he told James, looking forward to it. Gabriel Keegan had secured a place with the Office of the Surveyor General, also in Sydney, and James gained the impression that he wasn’t as pleased with the prospect of his new life in the colony as Matthew. He volunteered no explanation regarding the reasons for his emigration, however, and James didn’t ask. Otherwise, James found him intelligent, good-humoured and engaging. Barring the possibility of unfortunate shipboard accidents, or perhaps severe seasickness, he expected to see neither man back in his hospital during the voyage.

  By the time the convict women came up on deck for their evening exercise, the mess captains, who had been to the galley to collect supper, had breathlessly spread stories involving fine-looking gentlemen in silk toppers promenading the foredeck, and beautiful little princesses flitting about. There was, therefore, great curiosity and speculation regarding who the paying passengers were and what they were like. However, the foredeck’s only occupant was Amos Furniss, the whites of his eyes shining in the growing gloom as he smoked his pipe, coiled ropes and winked at the women.

  Rachel was deeply disappointed. ‘You saw them, Sarah, didn’t you? Were they really princesses?’

  Sarah said, ‘Of course they weren’t. They were just ordinary girls, a couple of years younger than you.’

  ‘What about the gentlemen in the silk toppers?’

  Fed up already with the gossip, Sarah snapped, ‘Who cares what their hats were made of, Rachel? They’re just folk. And not very grand ones, either, if they can only get passage on a convict ship.’

  Rachel looked hurt. ‘I only want to know what they’re like.’

  ‘Why? You won’t be talking to them. None of us will. You heard what the captain said. No fraternising.’

  Friday, leaning against the ship’s rail, drew on her pipe and puffed a cloud of smoke in Sarah’s face. ‘Don’t be a bitch, Sarah. She’s only having a little daydream.’

  ‘Well, daydreaming’s —’ Sarah stopped. ‘Did you hear that? A splash?’ She turned sharply and peered down into the murky, scum-topped water of the Thames.

  ‘A mermaid?’ Rachel rushed to have a look.

  They watched intently as choppy little waves slapped against the Isla’s shadowed hull twenty feet below. The stink of the fouled river rose to meet them, a broken barrel and other rubbish from the surrounding ships bobbed languidly past, and not far away a wherry with two people aboard rowed in a slow, wide circle, almost invisible in the descending darkness.

  Harrie coughed on Friday’s smoke. ‘You must have —’

  They all screamed as a white face burst up out of the water directly below them, arms stiff and outstretched, fingers grasping. Then, just as quickly, it was gone again.

  ‘Man overboard!’ Friday shouted. ‘Oi! Man overboard!’

  A sudden crush as everyone on deck crowded to the rail to see, shoving and elbowing for the privilege, then the thud of running feet. First Mate Warren forced his way through.

  ‘A face in the water, down there!’ Friday exclaimed, one hand pointing, the other pressed over her thumping heart. ‘Someone drowning!’

  ‘A woman,’ Sarah insisted. ‘I saw her hair.’

  Silas Warren’s gaze shifted from where the face had emerged in the water to the previously circling wherry, now carrying three passengers and pulling swiftly away towards a point on the right bank beyond the dockyard. He swore, then barged his way back out of the crowd.

  Harrie reached after him, clutching at his jacket. ‘You have to help her, she’s drowning!’

  Warren shrugged her off and kept going.

  ‘You can’t leave her!’ Harrie shrieked.

  But Mr Warren was bellowing orders now: the ship’s bell sounded and the deck suddenly swarmed with crew. Rattling and clanking, the quarterboat was lowered with a hard, flat splash and four men, descending the ropes like monkeys, dropped into it and snatched up the oars. Mr Warren, yelling from the rail, pointed vigorously and they set off, pulling hard, rowing alongside the Isl
a’s hull. Then they dug in the oars, slowed the boat and stared down into the black water. On deck, barely anyone moved, transfixed with horrible fascination on the scene below.

  ‘Oh, she’s drowned, she must have drowned,’ Harrie said in a muffled voice, her hands over her mouth.

  Finally, after what felt like an age, one of the crew reached out with a boat hook and snagged a barely discernible shape beneath the water. As it rose to the surface it transformed from a clump of dark rags into something possessing a head and limbs: the sailor settled his big hand on the pale throat, glanced up at Mr Warren and shook his head. A moan of shock rolled through the women.

  The men in the boat dragged the dead woman aboard by her skirts. Her arms and legs flopped and her nether regions became exposed in the manoeuvre, prompting angry cries from the watching women.

  It was too much for Captain Holland, already appalled by the first escape ever attempted on his watch. To have a prisoner drown was bad enough, but for another to actually slip over the side and abscond right beneath his very nose was unthinkable. Not only did it reflect on his prestige as a ship’s master, but he would lose the fees the government was paying him to transport both women.

  ‘Get them all below!’ he barked at Mr Warren.

  The Isla sailed the next morning, the third day of May, on the outgoing tide. Towed a short distance until the day’s buffeting wind filled her unfurled sails, she tacked steadily downriver until Gravesend was nothing more than a smudge on the horizon behind her. The women, locked below on Captain Holland’s orders, were bitter and morose, lamenting the loss of the only home most of them had known.

  The night before gossip had spread through the prison deck like the Great Fire about Ruth Bowler and Mary Ann Howells, the women who had gone overboard. It had been Mary Ann who had drowned — her sheet-shrouded body had been taken off the Isla before their departure — but Ruth Bowler had clearly got away, and her triumph had given the women such a fillip, their cheers and singing reaching the captain’s ears as he sat in his cabin and fumed. He’d ordered the quarterboat after the mysterious wherry and alerted the authorities at the dockyard, but of course it had been long gone, vanished among the river traffic if not already ashore, the escaped prisoner Ruth Bowler with it. She would be found eventually, he expected, and hopefully hanged this time for her sins, but what an infuriating occurrence — and on his last mission transporting convicts! They could stay locked below until the ship was in the middle of the North Atlantic ocean as far as he was concerned.