Behind the Sun

by Deborah Challinor

  And here he was now, capering about with a horrible green face, scaring the children witless and thoroughly enjoying himself. As were the rest of the crew, James had to admit.

  He gazed over the heads on the crowded waistdeck and noted Reverend and Mrs Seaton and their daughters standing on the foredeck viewing the proceedings, which surprised him as he hadn’t thought they’d approve at all, the ceremony being somewhat pagan. But he supposed they were as bored as everyone else. Matthew Cutler and Gabriel Keegan were also watching, laughing uproariously at the goings on.

  Cutler is a very decent young fellow, James thought, bright and personable and in all likelihood bound for a promising career with the office of the Government Architect. Keegan he wasn’t so sure about. He was sharply intelligent, there was no doubt about that, and mannered and charming — Mrs Seaton and her daughters certainly thought so — but he seemed just a fraction insincere. James sometimes had the feeling when talking to Keegan that he wasn’t really listening, as though he had far more interesting things to do and was only pretending to converse because he couldn’t get off the ship and go and do them. But if that were the case, James couldn’t really blame him: discounting the crew and prisoners, there were really only eight people Keegan could talk to, including James and the captain, and two of those were children. Perhaps he found his plans for the future more entertaining than his present company.

  He also spotted Harrie Clarke and her friends. Harrie; it was an odd nickname for a young woman, but it did suit her. As he had initially suspected she might, she was proving extremely useful in the hospital — bright, capable and, above all, compassionate. She also seemed immune to seasickness: in fact she apparently possessed a stomach of cast iron, which was always useful in a sick room. Yesterday morning he’d admitted to the hospital a boy aged five complaining of severe stomach cramps, and at midday the child had vomited a worm easily three feet long. Lil Foster had gone rather pale, but Harrie Clarke had merely tutted and set about cleaning up, sweeping the feebly twitching creature into a bowl then despatching it overboard. Two hours later the poor boy had suffered a violent bout of diarrhoea, expelling even more worms, and Harrie hadn’t batted an eye then, either. James wondered if she’d ever considered nursing as a vocation and made a mental note to ask her when he had an opportunity. At the very least he could provide her with a testimonial.

  He was pleased to see that Harrie and her companions had accepted Janie Braine and Sally Minto, two of the Bristol prisoners, as messmates. He had worried that the Newgate four would not accept interlopers, but had they been allowed to remain a quartet there would no doubt have been complaints of favouritism, inevitably from Liz Parker, who, he’d noted, took every opportunity to protest about anything regarding Friday Woolfe.

  Parker’s position of authority, however, had lately been usurped by Bella Jackson, an intriguing, albeit alarming, character. He’d had little to do with her since she’d boarded at Portsmouth, except for her initial medical examination, which had been a strange enough experience, and rather hoped to avoid her for the remainder of the voyage. She had refused to be physically examined, but, when he’d informed her she had no choice in the matter, had grudgingly allowed him to peer into her ears, eyes and mouth, and listen to her heart and lungs with his stethoscope. She’d baulked violently, however, at his request to palpate her belly, liver and kidneys: she had been badly burnt across her entire torso in a fire several years earlier, she said, and the area even now was far too painful to touch. She certainly couldn’t bear another set of eyes to witness the dreadful scars she bore. She was so thin James considered it unlikely she was hiding a pregnancy or any form of detectable internal scirrhi or benign tumour, so he had acquiesced to her wishes. Also, he was a little frightened of her. She spoke in a very abrasive manner, stared him straight in the eye, and, the whole time she was in his little examination cubicle, had given off such an aura of menace he’d been glad to see the back of her.

  Liz Parker, he felt, was still to be considered a troublemaker, if only a mundane, irritating one in the order of a body louse, whereas Bella Jackson was something more akin to rattus norvegicus — vicious, extremely cunning, and deeply noxious. Where Friday Woolfe fell between the two, or even if she did, he wasn’t sure, but of the three women he definitely knew with whom he would rather be marooned on a desert island, should that scenario ever eventuate. Of course, they would have to be marooned with an endless supply of gin as well, or his life would be even less worth living than Friday Woolfe’s would be, given his professional knowledge of the behaviour of the alcohol-deprived drunk.

  Gleeful shouts from the crew of ‘Pollywogs! Slimy pollywogs!’ drew his attention to a cleared area on the waistdeck near the main mast, where the new crewman Babcock and young Walter Cobley were being dragged towards a tub filled with what smelt, even from where James stood, suspiciously like the contents of the crew’s urinal. Babcock appeared to be taking the proceedings in his stride but Walter, who was only ten years old, looked terrified.

  First, a pile of refuse from the galley was upended on the deck and the two initiates forced to crawl through it on hands and knees, to raucous laughter and hoots of derision from the crew and the watching women — no doubt, James fancied, delighted to see someone other than themselves humiliated for a change. He noted that Amos Furniss appeared to be having a marvellous time cracking the cat-o’-nine-tails barely inches from their behinds. This was followed by ‘the Doctor’s’ introduction of some sort of foul-looking liquid into the novices’ mouths via an enormous glass pipette, which made Babcock cough and splutter and poor Walter vomit, followed by the application of the remainder of the liquid over their heads. Why the crew thought this was hilarious, James had no idea.

  They were then paraded around the waistdeck, stripped to their trousers, until finally they were sat side by side on upturned buckets. ‘The Barber’ then got to work and shaved both their heads brutally, leaving nicks from which blood flowed freely, before they were dunked in the tub filled with their comrades’ urine to the accompaniment of an almighty cheer, then presented to King Neptune and his queen, leaving behind the status of slimy pollywogs and becoming forever trusty shellbacks.

  James shook his head and retired to his cabin.

  They had been at open sea now for six weeks. They’d made very good time before the South East Trades, the doldrums were behind them, and the temperature had dropped somewhat. There was no need to call into either Rio de Janeiro or Cape Town, as the ship’s water supply was holding up well — none of the barrels had spoilt or leaked. Captain Holland therefore set a course that would keep the island of Trindade, followed by that of Tristan da Cuhna, on the Isla’s starboard side before she rounded the southern tip of Africa and picked up the stiff westerlies of the southern latitudes, then sailed directly on to her destination.

  Her passengers, both prisoners and free, had at last settled into a daily routine. It was generally agreed that the food, though limited in variety, was far better than that in the gaols; a number of prisoners were even gaining weight. Meals, depending on the whims of the Isla’s cook, were generally gruel in the morning with raisins or butter or sugar, dinners of beef or pork and biscuit and pease or plum pudding with bread, and suppers of pea soup or pudding with bread, made with the combined rations of each mess. Rations also included rice, suet, flour and tea, and water was issued every day. James Downey had begun doling out a daily ration of lime juice in Spanish red wine as soon as the Isla had sailed out of the Solent Strait: an ounce of lime juice to ward off scurvy, the Spanish red to encourage his charges to drink the lime.

  The only really negative aspect of the meat-and-starches diet was the constipation, an outcome of which was frequent visits to Mr Downey’s daily surgery for emetics. But one bonus resulting from unresponsive bowels was not having to make regular trips to the water closets. There were two, in a divided stall at one end of the prison deck, and they were noisome places even though they were emptied, scraped,
sluiced and sprinkled with chloride of lime three times a day. The stench tainted the very timbers of the closets, which were perpetually damp and somehow greasy. Ultimately they were unavoidable, as slow or blocked bowels became uncomfortable after a while, then outright painful, so the inevitable could only be put off for so long.

  To avoid using the water closets, some people had taken to surreptitiously shitting in buckets during the night, then emptying the contents down the privies in the morning. The smell then pervaded the prison deck, offence was taken and the matter reported to Mr Downey, who had outlawed the practice immediately for reasons of hygiene. But it had gone on, causing several bouts of slapping, hair-pulling and even fisticuffs when the culprits — Liz Parker and her crowd, of course — had been confronted.

  Harrie was thinking about all this as she squatted over the seat of one of the water closets, one hand pressed to the wall for balance against the rolling of the ship, the other clutching her gathered skirts against her distended belly. She would love to crap in a nice clean bucket, but could never bring herself to do it even if it was allowed. She hadn’t in Newgate, not in front of everyone, and wouldn’t be able to here, either.

  She grimaced as her thighs shook with the effort of supporting her weight; her bowel cramped sluggishly, and she let out a whimper as pain flared in her nether regions. This would teach her for not going to Mr Downey for an emetic, but she couldn’t do that either. How could she? The embarrassment! Sweat popped out on her forehead, her bowel spasmed again and, finally, she did what she’d been needing to do for the previous six days.

  Almost weeping from the relief, and resisting the urge to sit down, she retrieved a carefully hoarded square of fabric from her pocket and cleaned herself, ignoring the frayed tuft of rope and bucket of water on the floor. When she’d finished with it, she dropped the fabric down the hole, as Mr Downey had expressly forbidden the washing and reusing of such items, which included babies’ clouts, bandages and menstrual rags.

  Outside the stall she washed her hands with soap and water and dried them on her apron, feeling in a much better mood now but hoping the dull ache in her backside wasn’t the start of piles, and thinking it was strange how something as ordinary as a successful visit to the privy could influence a person’s entire outlook. It was curious, too, the way the existence of each and every woman had been reduced to the day-to-day activities aboard the Isla. It had, though. What they had known in London was behind them now, probably forever. All they knew about what might come next was their destination — Sydney in New South Wales — and that it was a penal colony, had a hot climate, and that they would be farmed out as servants for the length of their sentences. That wasn’t enough information on which to base a future, so all they had was now, each day, aboard ship. To think any more broadly or ambitiously was too daunting and too hopeless a task.

  Rachel still had plans, Harrie knew, of somehow saving up and going back to England to find Lucas Carew, if he didn’t come to New South Wales for her first, but they hardly listened to her now when she started on about that. She was only hurting herself. But the day before, at supper, she’d come out with the strangest thing; she’d said what if they were the only people left in the entire world? What if they were sailing halfway around the globe and it was only them, on the Isla, still alive? It was true, occasionally it did feel like that, as they hadn’t passed another ship in over a fortnight, but sometimes Harrie worried about Rachel. She could be perfectly sweet and bright and sunny one moment, then overcome with a really quite intense melancholy the next. The others passed it off as Rachel just being Rachel, but it frightened Harrie. She thought, if it kept on occurring, she might mention it to Mr Downey. He might know what to do about it.

  Matthew Cutler sat at the small writing desk in his cabin, trying studiously to read the tiny print in his bible. It had been given to him as a farewell gift by his mother. She had written To my dearest and most cherished youngest son, my little Matthew inside the front cover, and she had wept while she’d done it and smudged the ink with her tears. Matthew felt guilty every time he opened it. Also, it was slightly embarrassing as he was twenty-five years old, not seven, but he loved her for it anyway. It must be quite a shock to have the last of your children grow up and leave you. But he’d vowed to write to her every week without fail — and he had, even though that meant she’d get lots of letters from him at once, then possibly none for ages, depending on how many ships they passed going the other way.

  He sighed and closed the bible, defeated by the size of the print. He didn’t normally read it just for fun, but was so bored he’d been driven to it. He wished he’d brought more books, and wondered if the surgeon had any worth reading. He doubted Gabriel Keegan did, as he didn’t seem the bookish sort, and he thought it a safe bet that whatever Reverend Seaton might have in his cabin wouldn’t be any more interesting than his bible.

  He opened his little round cabin window and stared out at the undulating horizon for a few minutes, then turned his attention back to his desk, unscrewed the lid from his ink bottle, dipped his pen and began to write.

  9th of June, 1829

  My Dearest Mama,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I am well myself. Nothing much has happened since the last time I wrote. Here aboard the Isla the ‘Slimy Polliwogs’ seem to be adjusting well to life as ‘Trusty Shellbacks’.

  The temperature is growing colder as we approach the southern latitudes and I suspect I will soon be grateful for the scarves you knitted so beautifully for me.

  Yesterday we again saw whales, which was the highlight of an otherwise uneventful day. They are magnificent beasts, and are, I am convinced, the natural monarchs of the seas. They seem to swim so slowly and with so little effort, yet move with such awesome power and grace, one is left almost speechless observing them. They travel in packs, which is a good thing, as out here in all this ocean they must surely become lonely if they were to swim alone.

  We continue to be served reasonable meals. What we lack in variety is compensated with quantity. Mr Downey has ensured that the ship has been well-victualled, though I am growing somewhat sick of pickled potatoes. Mrs Seaton is fond of them and requests the dish often. I miss fresh beef most of all. And I would kill for a pork or pigeon pie.

  Matthew put down his pen and wondered about the next bit. His mother had been distinctly upset when he’d told her he would be travelling to New South Wales on a convict ship, even though the prisoners would all be women. Perhaps he ought to be careful what he wrote. On the other hand, she’d been on at him to find himself a wife since he’d turned twenty-one, so perhaps she would be pleased.

  There is a young woman also travelling aboard the Isla to whom I have taken a fancy. Her name is Harriet Clarke. She has quite the sweetest face I have ever encountered, the most glorious, shiny brown hair, and a marvellous, caring nature. Unfortunately I rarely have the opportunity to speak with her as she is so closely chaperoned, but I hope to be rewarded with the privilege of a few more moments with her before the Isla reaches New South Wales.

  This last bit was pure obfuscation, of course, but his mother would have an absolute conniption if she knew her precious youngest son had his eye on a convict girl. He knew in his heart it was immense folly to even mention Harriet, but he couldn’t help it — he had to say something to someone. He could just imagine his mother’s questions: What does Harriet Clarke’s father do? Who are her mother’s people? How did they make their money? He added:

  The prisoners really aren’t what you might imagine. They work industriously all day from sun-up to sunset, cleaning, sewing, attending the school Mrs Seaton has established, and meeting for prayers. In the evening, after supper, they all gather on deck and play games and dance skilfully and have a very merry time of it.

  He didn’t add that at least once a week the games and dancing came to an abrupt end due to fighting as the result of what appeared from the vantage point of the foredeck to be perceived encroachment over invisibl
e lines delineating the different factions’ deck spaces. And what he’d written still didn’t make the convict women look like a suitable cohort from which to draw a bride, not by a long shot and no matter how fancy their dance steps. He crossed out ‘skilfully’.

  And he hadn’t actually spoken to Harriet Clarke at all. Captain Holland had made it very clear at the beginning of the voyage that, on his ship at least, fee-paying passengers would not be mixing with those travelling courtesy of the Crown and vice versa, but he, Matthew, had watched her every night when the women came up on deck. Of them all, she stood out as the most attractive and certainly the most appealing. She was the prettiest, the sweetest, and she possessed genuine integrity. Though, to be honest, how he knew that just by observing her from afar, he wasn’t sure. He knew she assisted James Downey in the hospital, because he’d gone in there one day looking for him and had seen her, so he’d asked the surgeon her name, and why she was being transported. He was sure Mr Downey thought he was unhinged for wanting to know, but he’d been relieved to discover Harriet Clarke was only a thief, and not an axe murderer or something really heinous. That could be a little difficult to get past his mother.

  Well, Mother, I will sign off now as it is almost five o’clock and Reverend Seaton will shortly be conducting the daily prayer service, which everyone aboard ship attends.

  I will write again soon, and hope that in the coming days we will pass a ship that is homeward-bound, so that my letters may find their way to you.

  Your Affectionate Son

  Matthew

  He blotted a smear, then set aside the letter to dry. He had a pile of letters to send now, and was beginning to find it difficult to manufacture things to write about. One day was blurring into the next, becoming as smudged as the words in his correspondence. He actually envied the women on the prison deck, with all their daily chores. Hard work, yes, but at least they had something to do. Gabriel Keegan somehow managed to sleep much of the day away; how, Matthew didn’t know, not with all the banging and shouting going on from the crew. Perhaps he would ask the captain if he could be of assistance in some capacity. He’d sailed before — not on a ship as seagoing as this, of course, just yachting off the Devon coast when he was a youth — so he wasn’t a complete novice.