Behind the Sun

by Deborah Challinor

  Harrie asked, ‘Have you been there?’

  Friday shook her head. ‘It’s a port city, though, isn’t it? And I’ve known a lot of tars.’

  ‘London’s mean, too,’ Sarah remarked. ‘Can’t see how Bristol can be any worse.’

  ‘Different sort of mean,’ Friday said, inspecting her feet. They looked like bleached prunes. Perhaps she’d go barefoot if the weather got warmer. She put her earring back in.

  ‘Here they come,’ Rachel said excitedly, as footsteps thumped overhead and a shadow blocked the hatchway.

  One by one the women from Bristol descended the companion ladder backwards, bringing with them an assortment of bags, sacks, baskets and even several trunks. But when they reached the deck, instead of moving along the aisles, they waited, eyes darting about, taking in the Newgate contingent’s silence and impassive stares. A sense of expectation swelled the air. No one moved; no one made a noise. Even the children were quiet.

  ‘That’s only twelve,’ Rachel said in a whisper to Friday. ‘There’s supposed to be thirteen.’

  But Friday was watching the ladder.

  After what seemed suspiciously like a deliberately staged interval, a pair of smart, pale grey leather boots appeared on the top rung. As they stepped down, a heavy velvet skirt of dusky rose became visible, revealing a swish of petticoats as the wearer turned and deftly descended the ladder. Reaching the pool of sunlight at the bottom, she turned around again and paused, as though inviting everyone on the prison deck to take a good look at her.

  She was tall, taller even than Friday, and very slender, the fine cut of her black grosgrain jacket emphasising her slim hips. Friday decided immediately she was either sick or liked being that thin: she’d been in Bristol gaol but still possessed her finery, which meant she had money and could afford to eat if she wanted to.

  Considered individually, the woman’s facial features were a bit ordinary — a strong, crooked nose with a high bridge, curved lips and heavy-lidded, very dark eyes below plucked, arched brows. But combined, they somehow lent her a disconcerting sort of beauty. She wore kohl and lip stain, and her face was very white. Friday was putting her money on rice powder. Her hair, worn in heavy ringlets to her shoulders, gleamed like black jet, and on her head a squashy red velvet hat decorated with a white ostrich feather sat at a jaunty angle. A silk scarf was knotted around her throat and her fingers glittered with several large rings. She stared coolly back at the faces studying her, then, so suddenly that those near her jumped, she flicked open a black lace fan and flapped at the air in front of her face.

  A child squeaked, ‘Mam, who’s that lady?’ and was silenced by a muffled slap.

  The Bristol women parted to let this last of their number through and the woman set off slowly down the aisle, hat in hand now to avoid crushing the feather against the low ceiling. Her gait already accommodating the roll of the ship, she looked left and right, peering into every berth and poking at mattresses with a long finger. Apparently transfixed, nobody stopped her, not even Liz Parker.

  Bemused, Sarah said, ‘What’s she doing?’ It came out quite loudly.

  A Bristol prisoner cringed and touched a finger to her lips. ‘Hush. She’s deciding where she wants to sleep.’

  Incredulous, Sarah exclaimed, ‘What’s wrong with one of the empty bunks?’

  The girl flinched. ‘Don’t upset her! She’ll go mad.’

  Sarah and Friday exchanged a glance. Friday snorted. ‘Who the hell does she think she is?’

  The girl, noticeably pregnant and with something not quite right about her face, gave them a funny look. ‘She doesn’t think, she knows. That’s Bella Jackson.’

  ‘I’ve heard plenty about her,’ Friday said, blowing a series of short, sharp smoke rings now that she was above deck, ‘but I’ve never met her. Stupid thing to do, if you ask me.’

  ‘What is?’ Sarah could see Friday was annoyed.

  ‘Putting her and Liz Parker on the same boat. Shit will fly.’

  ‘But why?’ Rachel asked. ‘I’ve never even heard of Bella Jackson.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, shovelling cowshit in Guildford.’ Rachel blinked, and Friday patted her hand. ‘Sorry, love. That was mean. You know how Liz Fat-Arse Parker ran her own crooked little kingdom in Newgate and thinks she’s going to keep on running it while we’re at sea? Well, Bella Jackson ran a real kingdom before she was arrested, up in Birmingham. She was abbess of one of the busiest brothels, owned two or three more, not to mention a couple of dollyshops, and ran probably the biggest crew in the city. She had interests in gaming, broads, counterfeiting, all sorts of rackets. The watch have been after her for years. Very cunning article.’

  ‘So what’s she doing on a convict ship, then?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘I heard someone sold her up the river. I hadn’t heard she’d be getting transported with us, though.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a secret,’ Rachel said, her eyes shining. ‘Perhaps she’s been sneaked on so no one can help her escape, like Ikey Solomon did.’ Like most of England, she’d heard about the notorious criminal’s daring escape from custody, aided by his father-in-law, on the way back from the Court of King’s Bench, after which he’d apparently vanished into thin air.

  Friday and Sarah looked at Rachel and Friday laughed. ‘You know, you could be right about that.’

  Rachel beamed.

  ‘Is she from Birmingham originally?’ Sarah said.

  Friday shrugged. ‘Nobody really knows. Apparently, she just sort of appeared there about ten years ago. Some say she hails from Bristol, some say Liverpool and others swear Cornwall.’

  ‘You’d think it was Windsor Castle, the way she’s carrying on,’ Sarah said disparagingly.

  Bella Jackson had commandeered two bunks, one above the other, her crew turfing out the original occupants. Within half an hour, a curtain had been erected right around the lower bunk, behind which Bella had disappeared, along with the trunks that belonged to her, without saying a word to anyone.

  Two of the Bristol women had been allocated to join Friday, Rachel, Harrie and Sarah’s mess, to make their numbers up to six. One was named Sally Minto, and the other, the pregnant girl, Janie Braine.

  Janie appeared now, wearing her new prison outfit. The stiff apron stuck out over her belly, giving her the appearance of being eight months gone rather than the six she said she was.

  She sat down on a barrel, knees apart, her face pale. ‘Makes your tummy feel squiffy, doesn’t it, the ship moving.’

  ‘You wait until we set sail,’ Rachel said.

  Close up, in full daylight, they could all see what was wrong with Janie’s face — she was blind in her left eye, which looked resolutely forwards, regardless of what the other eyeball did. And like Friday, she was tattooed — in Janie’s case on the back of her right hand.

  ‘Jane Braine: that’s an unusual name,’ Sarah said, the exaggerated tone of contemplation in her voice not quite masking the sarcasm.

  ‘Janie,’ Janie said. ‘Not Jane. It does sound daft if you just say Jane.’

  Rachel nodded at Janie’s stomach. ‘You’ll miss your husband.’

  ‘Only if I had one.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rachel said.

  ‘You’re not below attending to Queen Bella,’ Friday remarked.

  Janie made a face. ‘It’s a relief not to be. Where’s that other girl, the nice one?’

  ‘Harrie? She’s working in the hospital,’ Rachel told her.

  Friday asked, ‘Were you in Bristol Gaol with Bella Jackson?’

  ‘Not for long. She was brought down from Birmingham, all the way in a coach, handcuffed to the door. Her and half a dozen girls. They had a week in Bristol with us, then we came down here.’ Janie glanced furtively over her shoulder. ‘I think she’s a witch. I think she’s cast a spell on the others. They’ll do anything she tells them to do.’ She shuddered. ‘She just gives me the shits.’

  Rachel’s eyes were huge. ‘Has Sally Minto been bewitched?’ Aghast, she
turned to Friday. ‘What if we get a spell put on us?’

  Friday patted her hand reassuringly. ‘Then we’ll cast one back. Is she one for the ladies?’

  ‘Sally Minto?’

  ‘No, Bella Jackson.’

  Janie thought about it. ‘Haven’t noticed. Keeping it quiet if she is.’ She glanced up at the foredeck. ‘That toff up there’s been gawping at you for ages, Rachel. He your fancy man?’

  They all turned to look; there was indeed a man standing on the foredeck watching them. It was Mr Keegan, one of the paying gentlemen, and today he was togged out in a burgundy-coloured cutaway with a wide collar, a smart waistcoat, a starcher, fawn trousers and his usual top hat. The general opinion among the women was that lifting a leg to him as a potential source of income would not be a hardship. The fact that he was back aboard the Isla suggested they would shortly be setting sail: the paying passengers had all gone ashore when they’d dropped anchor on the Mother Bank a week earlier.

  Mr Keegan waved, touched his hand to his hat brim, trotted athletically down the companion ladder and disappeared through the door that led to the passenger cabins.

  ‘No, he is not my fancy man!’ Rachel protested. ‘I’m betrothed.’

  ‘Fat lot of good that’s going to do you, transported to New South Wales,’ Janie said. She cocked a hand behind one large, pink ear. ‘What’s that I hear? Could it be the sound of a galloping knight in shining armour? Oh, no, it’s just me guts rumbling.’

  Friday tried not to, but she laughed.

  On the verge of tears, Rachel shot back, ‘You’re a sarky cow, you are, Janie Braine. And you’re no help either,’ she added to Friday.

  ‘I’m sorry, love,’ Friday said.

  Contrite, Janie said, ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you. And you’re a lovely-looking thing, I’ll say that. Whoever he is, he’s a mug if he doesn’t follow you.’ She gestured towards the cabins. ‘You know, you could make yourself a bit of money on the way, start saving up to come back once you’ve done your time. Big money, too, with your looks.’

  ‘Ew, that’s revolting!’ Rachel exclaimed. ‘I couldn’t have another man near me. Not after Lucas.’

  But it did give her an idea. Several, in fact.

  Becky Hoddle, reclining on the bunk, was suddenly alert. ‘Watch out,’ she said to Liz Parker, who was dozing, her bulky body sprawled across the mattress beside her.

  Liz woke up with a start. ‘What?’

  ‘Here comes that little Winter girl from Woolfe’s crew.’

  Peering down the aisle, Liz muttered, ‘What’s she want?’

  ‘Likely off to the bogs.’

  But Rachel wasn’t off to the bogs. Parking her small bum against the table she said, ‘I’ve got a proposition for you, Liz Parker.’

  ‘Ooh, sounds tempting.’ Prepared to play along a little before humiliating her, Liz propped herself up on one meaty elbow. ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘I challenge you to a broads session. Your choice of game. The pot will be the money you stole from us. If I lose then we pay you double whatever’s in the pot.’

  Liz slowly sat up, her pendulous breasts shifting beneath her prison blouse. Now this was a proposition. Already her heart was beating faster.

  Rachel crossed her arms. ‘Think about it. You can’t lose either way. If I win I take back what wasn’t yours anyway. If you win, you double it. How much is left?’

  ‘Thirty-one quid,’ Becky blurted.

  Liz glared at her.

  Rachel whistled. ‘Sixty-two pounds, Liz. You could come out of it with sixty-two pounds.’ She drew the words out tantalisingly. ‘A fortune.’

  ‘Yous lot haven’t got another thirty-one quid,’ Liz said.

  ‘You haven’t got a clue what we’ve got.’

  But it was already too late. Liz didn’t care. It was happening — the blood skittering through her veins like a million busy ants, the sweaty palms, the growing sense of anticipation and excitement lifting the hair on her arms, a feeling better even than really good-quality gin. She could see herself now, holding hand after hand of winning cards, slapping them down one after the other, her elation building and building until the pot was hers. And it would be hers, because every game played brought her closer to that feeling of nirvana, that ultimate bright and burning thrill of victory.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she said.

  ‘Liz —’ Becky interrupted.

  ‘Shut up. Five High, my deck. Best of three.’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘I’ll play Five High, but not with your deck. Someone else’s: a clean one.’

  Liz shrugged, confident she could manipulate the game by other means if necessary. ‘When?’

  ‘In an hour?’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  When Rachel had gone, Becky warned, ‘Don’t forget she’s a crack broadsman. No one’ll play her any more.’

  ‘Not as good as me, though. Why d’ya think she’s never sat down across from me, ya fool? Too scared of losing, that’s why.’

  Becky didn’t think so. Becky thought Rachel Winter was scared of Liz simply because she was such a foul old tarleather. Which meant it had taken real guts for the girl to challenge Liz, so Liz should be even more wary than usual. But she wasn’t because broads, Liz’s weakness, were involved, and the girl had known that. Everyone knew that. And only three games! A lot could go wrong in only three games.

  On the other hand, perhaps it was time Liz Parker’s reign of power came to an end. She was old and arrogant and she’d had her day. She was starting to make stupid decisions and now she was risking losing the money Becky had stuck her arm down that revolting bog in Newgate to retrieve. If someone knocked Liz off her pedestal, Becky wouldn’t be sorry. In fact, for the right money, she could probably be persuaded to help.

  Rachel walked back to the others on very wobbly legs. They were all staring at her.

  ‘I’ve just challenged Liz Parker to a session of Five High. I’m going to win our money back.’

  There was a long moment of shocked silence, then Harrie spoke. ‘Perhaps you might have talked to us about that first, Rachel.’

  ‘Why? You might have said no and I know I can win.’

  ‘What happens if you lose?’ Sarah interjected.

  ‘Then we have to double the pot. Another thirty-one pounds.’

  ‘We don’t have thirty-one pounds!’ Friday exclaimed, and flopped back on the bunk in despair. ‘Bloody hell, we’re buggered.’

  Sarah scowled. ‘Has that bitch spent nine quid of our money?’

  ‘We’re not buggered,’ Rachel said. ‘I’ll win, don’t worry.’

  ‘What if she cheats?’ Friday demanded. ‘She always cheats.’

  ‘She can’t: everyone will be watching. And she’s agreed we won’t use her deck, or mine.’

  Friday’s face was full of misgiving. ‘She’ll have something up her sleeve.’

  ‘We’ll roll our sleeves up,’ Rachel said, missing Friday’s metaphor.

  ‘Oh dear, Rachel, you really should have talked to us first,’ Harrie said again.

  Rachel shook her head. ‘I can win. I can. Let me do it. I’m better at cards than she is. I’ve watched her play. And we’ll never get our money back otherwise, will we? They’re never going to leave it unguarded. The only time there’s no one at their bunk, we’ve been made to go up on deck, too. And this way if I win — when I win — everyone will witness it and she’ll have to give it to us. This is our only chance.’

  It was, and they all knew it.

  An hour later everything was ready. Thrilled at the prospect of witnessing a card duel between two very skilled players from opposing crews, everyone had crowded into the centre of the prison deck, standing hunched over on the benches, crammed into the aisles and squeezing themselves onto the bunks either side of the long table where Rachel and Liz sat.

  Two grumbling women had been sent to stand guard at the hatch to warn of approaching crew and illegal candles had been lit and set on the ta
ble. Then there was disagreement about which deck of cards to use. Ten, belonging to various women, were placed on the table. Liz selected three, which Rachel examined and found to be marked. Rachel chose four, which Liz discarded because she didn’t like the ‘feel’. Of the three left, Liz insisted that two had been marked by Rachel, though they hadn’t, and that the pattern on the back of the remaining deck was too distracting.

  At that moment the throng near the table parted, jostling and swearing, and Bella Jackson appeared. There was no sign of her prison uniform — her costume was as fine as the one in which she’d embarked several days ago, except today her head was bare, bar a fan-shaped tortoiseshell comb holding back her ringlets.

  She slid an octagonal rosewood box onto the table, its lid slightly curved and inlaid with brass. ‘Open it,’ she ordered.

  Rachel did. Inside, lined with duck-egg blue velvet, were four card compartments and four smaller sections containing gaming counters.

  ‘The cards have never been used,’ Bella Jackson said. ‘They are not marked.’

  Rachel withdrew a deck and inspected it closely. They were beautifully illustrated and, no, they weren’t marked. She handed them to Liz. After much squinting and holding the cards up to the candles, Liz nodded. They tossed a coin to determine who would deal first; Rachel won.

  She shuffled, the cards moving so fast between her small hands they became a blur. She did a couple of show-off tricks to entertain the onlookers and settle her nerves, shuffled again, then dealt.

  The first game was over fairly quickly. Every time Rachel threw down a card, Liz’s hand hovered as she considered whether to pick it up or to choose from the unplayed cards. Her instinct must have been good because in short order she’d achieved Five High in spades, the second highest suit, and won. The crowd groaned.

  Rachel looked up at Harrie, Sarah and Friday. Sweat beaded her upper lip and tendrils of hair stuck to her cheeks. She looked bewildered and a little frightened.

  ‘My deal,’ Liz crowed. She snatched up the cards and shuffled them backwards and forwards, tossing and flicking them around in an effort to outdo Rachel.

  ‘Fucking get on with it, will you?’ Friday snapped.