by Mary Hooper
‘Alas, they cannot,’ I said. ‘But there is a woman in the next cottage who can read a letter. Do you know what it will cost to post?’
‘It will cost you nothing,’ said Mrs Fry, ‘because the recipient will have to pay on its arrival. Are your family able to do that?’
‘I believe so,’ I said, but the truth was, I didn’t know. It all depended on so many things: whether the summer harvest had been good, if my father had tuppence to spare that week and if they realised that the letter was from me.
I paid a turnkey a penny to ask the scribe to come into the women’s quarters, and he appeared the following afternoon with quill, ink and parchment. After a great deal of thought and hesitation on my part, he wrote, under my direction:
Dearest Mother and Father,
I have to tell you the sorrowful news that I am presently in Newgate Prison and about to be transported to Australia. I fear the circumstances which brought this punishment on to my head are too long to tell here, but rest assured that they do not mean that I have done anything wicked or immoral. Please also be advised that I have with me a young child, Betsy Villiers, who, although an orphan, may have other members of her family enquire for her. If they do, please pass on the knowledge that she is safe and well.
To help regain our family’s good name, please be kind enough to send word to Bridgeford Hall to tell them that Miss Alice’s bag and money were stolen from me the moment I arrived in London. It was this crime which led directly to my downfall.
I will endeavour to tell you of my safe arrival in Australia and let you know how I am faring. In the meantime, please know that I think of you every day, and remain,
Your loving daughter,
Katherine
I did the best I could with the address, stating that they lived near the Bear and Bull Tavern, and paid another ha’penny over the tuppence to have the letter sealed with red wax. It looked very important when it was completed and would probably frighten the life out of them, for I couldn’t remember them ever having received a letter before.
I sat down and cried when the letter-writer had gone, for writing to my parents had caused me to realise that I would probably never see them again in this life. I prayed for everything to go smoothly: that the scribe was a man to be trusted, that the post office would put my letter in the right bag, that a highwayman would not snatch it on its way to Devonshire, that the address would be understood and that my father had a spare tuppence in his pocket to pay for its delivery. There were so many reasons why my letter might not be delivered that I just had to trust to luck. And then I cried a little more for, since coming to London, luck had not been a friend to me.
Chapter Twenty
I tried to imagine myself in this new land. We would not be made to wear shackles once we were there, they said, for there was nowhere for us to escape to. If we were too young or too old to be taken as wives, we would work in what they called a factory house (which sounded much like a workhouse), carding wool, picking oakum or doing some other monotonous task. They said the weather was all topsy-turvy: that when it was hot in England, in Australia it would be cold enough to freeze milk.
I tried to imagine the long, long journey, and what it would be like to sail across the sea for days and months and see nothing around but water, and came to the conclusion that I would not be able to bear it. Some people were dreadfully seasick, apparently, and fell over when they tried to walk. Other prisoners caught fevers and died on board, for the conditions down below the decks on some ships were as bad as at Newgate. If you died when the ship was at sea, you would be wrapped in canvas and thrown overboard to be eaten by fish.
It was a week after Mrs Fry’s second visit that those of us who had been sentenced to be sent to Parts Beyond the Seas were told to collect our things ready to go to the ship. This sent Martha into a frenzy of sobs which affected both Robyn and Betsy, while I remained relatively calm, for I could not believe I was really going. Why, I hardly believed there was such a land across the seas; it seemed as remote as heaven or the kingdom they say is inhabited by faeries. Surely something would happen to prevent my leaving: they would say that my sentence was a mistake, that they knew I had not meant any harm, that I should be spared. Surely Will would gallop up to the ship on a white horse and rescue us!
But nothing of that sort happened and I said my goodbyes to Mrs Goodwin and to Martha – which was especially hard – and waited with Betsy, my wooden crate in my arms, feeling as if I was in a dream.
At the prison gates, the sight of two small children plus eight sobbing girls waiting to have their shackles put on was a very sorry one. It did not help matters, either, when we were given a send-off which was much like that given to those about to be hanged, with the other female inmates rattling the bars, stamping on the ground and shouting protests about us being made to leave our mother country. I noticed that Sarah wasn’t amongst our number, and found out later that she was not well enough to travel, being ill with the fever.
As we prisoners came outside to get into the waiting cart, a change came upon us, for the sky was blue and the air fresh and frosty, which suddenly stopped our tears and made us blink like badgers in the sharp sunlight. For a moment I was reminded of my cows when spring arrives and they leave their winter quarters to be turned out into pasture: how they stretch, bellow and kick up their legs with the joy of no longer being confined. There was no joy for us in thinking of what lay ahead, but it was so good to be outside that I closed my eyes, turned my face towards the silvery sun and took in great gulps of fresh air. And when Betsy asked me why all the bells were ringing, I realised that it was not merely because it was Sunday, but Christmas morning.
This tiny moment of elation didn’t last, and we were silent as we climbed into the cart. We sat on the floor and huddled together for warmth, for despite the blue sky and sun it was dismally cold. I did not know any of my fellow captors; two of them came from the Master’s Side and the others, in all the great press of people, I hadn’t really noticed before. In gaol you tended to keep yourself to yourself – and besides, it was difficult to distinguish between us, for with our torn gowns, filthy faces and matted hair we were just a raggle-taggle band of disorderly women. After a while, one of the three burly guards announced that we were heading for a boat waiting at Swan Dock which would take us on to Galleon’s Reach, a way down the Thames towards the sea, and that we would be most of the day getting there. At Galleon’s Reach waited the ship we would be sailing on, the Juanita.
We received this news in silence, for I believe we were all drained and dulled by the enormity of what was happening to us. Betsy fell asleep and I covered her up with a shawl and tucked her tightly against me, but I was too cold to sleep and was seized with a violent shivering. How could this be happening? I thought about those at home and wondered if my letter had reached them, thought about Miss Sophia returning to the hall, and the surprising kindness of Mr Holloway. Mostly I thought about Will; where he could be and what he would say if he knew what was happening to us. Oh, surely the news would cause him a little anguish?
The road beyond the city became worse – potholed and treacherous – and at length we reached a small jetty where a long, low rowing boat was awaiting us. With difficulty, for we were all still in chains, the watermen on it helped us climb aboard. The captain of the vessel came and looked us over, then asked one of our guards if we were likely to cause any trouble.
‘Not they!’ came the reply. ‘They’ve not the strength to cause a fuss.’
Our boat cast off and, as we continued downriver, the number of ordinary houses decreased and the wharves and warehouses grew more numerous, as did the river traffic. At first it was mostly small rowing boats, ferries, lighters and tugs going backwards and forwards (and you can imagine that I scrutinised the ferries and those who rowed in them most carefully); later we saw tall-masted ships unpacking their cargoes of tea, sugar and coal, oblivious to what day of the year it was. As hard as I looked, though, and as d
esperately as I prayed, I did not see the one ferryman I sought.
By now we were all too tired, too cold and too miserable to even weep at our fate, but sat on the floor of the boat as if turned to statues. As the city receded and the scene at each side of the river changed from busy wharves to a gloomy wilderness of swamps, mud and desolation, each of us was locked in our own thoughts. When we came upon a great lumpen mass of a ship, without sails or cannon, half-sunk in the river, we looked at it with a little curiosity, but did not comment.
When a second mighty – yet unkempt and uncared-for – ship came into sight, however, half-buried in mud, and someone read out, ‘The Brunswick’, I could not but wonder aloud what it was doing there.
‘ ’Tis a prison ship with well-nigh a hundred men and guards on board,’ said one of those who rowed us. ‘A hulk, they call it. It was towed to its spot and cannot move.’
‘But why are they imprisoned so?’ one of the girls asked.
‘Because the gaols are too full to take ’em,’ came the brief answer. ‘And out here on the marshes yon prisoners can fight and wrestle and starve and kill each other and few will know or care.’
As we passed the Brunswick, our guard told us that the stink from the ship was not to be borne in summer at low tide. ‘The hulk just sits there in its own mess until the river comes in and washes everything away,’ he explained cheerily. ‘But then again, if the men weren’t put in there, they’d be in Newgate. ’Tis hard to choose between ’em.’
‘Why don’t they just swim to shore and escape?’ one of our number asked.
‘Swim? Wearing leg irons and through such terrain?’ the guard replied. ‘These marshlands stretch for miles – any creature jumping ship would lose his way and certainly perish amidst mud and quicksand.’
‘They do try it occasionally,’ another remarked. ‘We find their bones washed up on the spring tide.’
We came to yet another stranded ship, deep in silt and decay and hanging with weeds and wet clothing, named the Unicorn.
‘Aye. Another hulk,’ said the guard. ‘She was a fine ship once . . . fought the Spanish and came back with a cargo of gold. Now look at her.’
Some of us looked up as we passed, all uncaring, and as we did so someone on the ship must have seen that we were a boatload of girls, for we heard shouts and men suddenly appeared from all over the decks, some shouting profanities, some declaring love, some pleading for us to break our journey and call in and see them.
Only one girl from our boat waved, and it certainly wasn’t me, for I felt as if I didn’t have a wave or smile left in me. On and on we went, until we came to deeper waters, a broader river and a mighty ship, spruce and newly painted.
‘Is that our ship?’ someone asked, but we were told we were not there yet, and it would be another hour’s rowing (for we were going against the tide now) before we reached the ship we would be travelling on.
At last she was sighted.
‘ ’Tis the Juanita!’ someone called out, holding a lantern aloft, and the rest of us sighed deeply, woke those who had been lucky enough to find sleep, and prepared ourselves to climb the ladder and go on board.
Chapter Twenty-One
Most of us were weeping as we trudged and shuffled down a passageway and into a small dark room. It was icy cold, and there was a strange aroma of salt and tar in the air which seemed to catch at the back of my throat.
One of the guards hooked a lantern over a beam, said in a mocking voice, ‘I trust you’ll sleep well, ladies!’, and left us. We heard a crash as a bar came down outside the door, then the rattling of keys as he locked us in.
‘Here!’ shouted the girl who’d waved at the hulks – I’d heard her called Jane. ‘Don’t just go off and leave us. Where’s our vittles?’
‘You surely don’t think they’ll feed us at this time of the night!’ said an older woman. ‘We’ll have to wait for morning.’
‘Dumping us in here like a box of chickens!’ Jane said, thumping at the door. ‘At least in Newgate we were fed!’
The rest of us had been leaning against the walls and now began to slide to the floor, too tired and downhearted to care whether we supped or starved. Betsy was practically asleep on her feet and I pulled her down beside me and put her head on my lap. There was a pile of threadbare blankets in the middle of the room and the older woman handed me one, with a wan smile, and helped me tuck it around Betsy. I remember thanking her, and this was the last thing I can recall before I fell asleep myself.
I woke to find Betsy shaking my arm and begging me to please wake up. I opened my eyes a little, but it was an effort.
‘I am very, very hungry,’ Betsy said. ‘When will we get our bread?’
My eyelids drooped again. I felt stiff and bruised. My head ached with the lack of fresh air and the tarry smell was making me nauseous.
‘Don’t go back to sleep!’ Betsy lifted my lids and held them open, then said in my ear, ‘Are we in Australia yet?’
With many a groan and a sigh, I shifted myself into a sitting position. ‘No, I’m very much afraid we are not – we haven’t even started our journey.’ Her lip wobbled at this. ‘But soon we are going all the way down the river to the sea!’ I said, trying to make it sound exciting.
‘The sea.’ She thought about this for some moments. ‘But it’s very large, and if we go there, however will my brother know how to find us?’
She hadn’t spoken about Will for some time, so I wasn’t expecting it and had to turn away so she wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. After a moment, when I could trust my voice, I added, ‘Maybe . . . maybe you and I will have to manage without him.’
‘But I don’t want to!’ she said. ‘You said we would find him if we came to London!’
‘I know I did,’ I said helplessly, and would have just dissolved into useless tears again but Cassandra, the mother of the only other child amongst us, asked Betsy if she wouldn’t mind looking after her baby for a moment.
Betsy, more used to being looked after herself, was at first surprised and then took the child, who was about a year old, sat him on her hip and locked her arms around him as if she had been doing it all her life. For the moment, the question of Will was forgotten.
When a sailor appeared, rolling in a small barrel of fresh water for us, the girl called Jane spoke up loudly to demand the previous day’s ration of meat, which she said was ours by rights. ‘We surely should have had roast meat on Christmas Day!’ she said indignantly. ‘God knows we have little enough vittles the rest of the year.’
The sailor, a pigtailed man in baggy grey trousers, linen smock and neckerchief, stood looking at her, amused.
‘I suppose you had the extra portions yourself,’ she went on. ‘You certainly look as if you have.’
I froze, thinking that she would be struck for her insolence, but to my surprise he roared with laughter. ‘They said you were a bunch of disorderly wenches and you surely are!’
‘Never mind that!’ Jane said. ‘Just enquire about our meat ration.’
‘Yes, please do,’ said the older woman, who gave her name as Margaret. ‘And would you tell the captain that I am a lady born and bred, and there are certain privileges I should be allowed on board.’
I hid a gasp, thinking she was going to be hauled out for her rudeness, but the sailor just grinned. In due course, a smartly uniformed man appeared, telling us he was a warrant officer, and from him we learned everything that was going to happen, which struck us as very civil – and quite unlike how we had been treated by the turnkeys in Newgate.
He said that we would be moored on the River Thames past Woolwich – for that was where we were, and I had never heard of it – for several days while other girls sentenced to leave our shores came from nearby prisons. Once everyone was on board, the Juanita would sail down the Thames on the tide, go past the coast of Kent and around to Portsmouth Harbour to collect more women and provisions. After that, our final stop would be at Plymo
uth to collect girls from prisons at Exeter, Bristol and Taunton and take on livestock and fresh water before setting out for Botany Bay. This, apparently, was the place in Australia we were destined for.
‘Although we will stop at several places to buy local foodstuffs and water,’ the officer finished.
No one asked what these places were, and I certainly did not, for I hardly knew the names of the places in England, and the names of foreign countries would have meant little to me.
‘If you all behave yourselves, we should have a fair journey,’ he said. ‘Our captain is a decent man and a gentleman, and there will be a surgeon and his assistant on board should anyone need medical attention.’
‘What about telling our families where we’ve gone?’ someone asked. ‘What about our children? I had to leave three little ones in the care of my sister.’
‘If you come and see me, we can make arrangements for letters to be sent,’ said the officer. ‘And if anyone’s immediate family want to come and say goodbye, then a private cabin will be made available to them.’
Momentarily, I thought of my ma and pa getting my letter and of them trying to find me. They had no money for the journey to London, had never been on a coach, much less been to London, and they had no travelling clothes or bags. Even if they got as far as Charing Cross, how could they possibly find me, stuck on a ship they didn’t know the name of, in the middle of nowhere, halfway to the sea?
‘How many women will be sailing altogether?’ Margaret asked.
‘We will start with near two hundred,’ he answered, and there were some gasps and shrieks at this, ‘and it is our intention, with good care and fair conditions, to lose as few of you as possible. You are a valuable cargo.’