by Laura Frantz
“Ye look every inch the laddie’s mother,” the woman nearest her said in consoling tones. “Yer hair’s the same. Even has a dimple same as ye.”
“Hoot!” another said. “She doesna have any milk—”
“Neither did his auntie. A milch goat’ll do.”
An argument erupted over the best nourishment, how to rear him and keep him clean and content. But all agreed Lark was the answer.
That night she huddled in her bunk, praying more than sleeping. Larkin’s plump body curled into hers, a nugget of warmth in the bowels of a ship that seemed to lose every speck of heat once the sun set and take on the cold of the sea. He slept fitfully, having wet himself. She would have to beg some cloth.
The steward roused her at break of day with news she’d never in a hundred years thought to hear. Even he seemed flummoxed when he said, “Yer to come on deck for transfer to the Bonaventure.”
Transfer? “Why?”
He looked annoyed. “Orders.”
Felons asked few questions, especially female ones. She carried a still-sleeping Larkin in a sort of sling about her back and shoulders, compliments of the ship’s surgeon who’d seen West Indies mothers do the same. It eased her back and Larkin seemed to like it.
Without further explanation, into a lighter they went in the damp dawn, rowing across the harbor crowded with prison hulks, private merchant vessels, his majesty’s warships, pilot boats, and the local fishing fleet.
Soon Larkin would awake and want to be fed. ’Twas a routine she dreaded, not knowing how the next batch of milk would be had. Her own stomach cramped with emptiness. The convict ship they’d just left seemed a child’s toy compared to the behemoth looming ahead with its bow bearing the nautical figurehead of a mermaid.
Half a dozen men stared down at her from the gunwale. Soon she was raised in a boatswain’s chair, reminding her of distressed livestock forced into canvas slings and hoisted on board. She felt just as ungainly with Larkin clutched to her bodice—a cow and a calf, truly.
“Ah, a Quaker miss,” the mate said, handing her over the ship’s side.
“I wasna told of a bairn,” another said.
Would they send her back to the Neptune then? Heaven forbid. Glad of her modest garb, she was aware of the scrutiny of a great many men. Where were the female criminals? All she saw were sailors. Alarm spiked through her. Had there been some mistake? Nay, they’d called her by name.
She was led below to what she feared was the orlop, through an open hatch, past closed doors to a berth—all her own? One she’d share with wee Larkin. Once the door was closed, not locked, she took in her new surroundings.
Bethankit, Lord.
Her sense that she’d narrowly been delivered of something terrible swelled. Yet a tendril of anxiety took root. Why was she here aboard the Bonaventure instead?
Here, at the moment, consisted of four wooden walls, both a bunk and a hammock, a small table and chair, and a blessed porthole open to a breeze. No scent of bilge. No signs of cockroaches or rats. No one fighting for a sleeping platform or crust of bread. No one threatening to stick you with a straight pin in your sleep.
Silence. But for the sound of footsteps and creak of ropes above. And the babe’s gentle breathing.
In minutes, a knock sounded and breakfast was brought. Porridge, still steaming. Toast with blackened crust. Tea.
She blinked as the tray was set down. It seemed ungrateful to ask for milk for the babe in the face of such bounty. Mightn’t she spoon him some porridge and tea?
Larkin saved her the difficulty. Flushed and still perspiring from sleep, he awoke and stared at the strange steward and squawked.
“Sounds a bit like the captain’s parrot, ye do.” The man grinned. “But I ken ’tis milk yer wanting.” He moved toward the open door. “And a private corner.”
“Please—I’m not his mother. I canna nurse . . .”
He swung back around, looking baffled. Truly, at first glance, their resemblance was uncanny.
“I’ve no experience with bairns, miss. What d’ye suggest?”
“Goat’s milk?”
His eyes lit with satisfaction. “The bairn willna starve then. The last o’ the livestock was loaded this morn. I did spy a nannie and kid among the bucks.”
“I’ll need a supply of cloth for clouts to keep him clean and dry.”
This he might manage. A nod reassured her. “He’s a braw lad, even if he’s not yer own.”
She smiled her thanks and stared at the tray. The porridge had ceased steaming. The tea was likely tepid. Best withhold any more questions or requests. She sat down at the tiny table, Larkin still close in his sling, and left nary a crumb, spooning her charge a tiny taste of tea now and again, his perplexed expression comical.
Time ticked on. Had the goat’s milk been forgotten? The cloths? She’d used her apron as a last resort. Laying him down on the sleeping platform, she changed him, her cap now a clout.
He began to whimper and kick his feet, not one to be distracted ere long.
“I left my baby lying here, lying here, lying here. I left my baby lying here to go and gather blueberries . . .” The Scots lullaby failed to soothe, and she was grateful for another knock. A piggin of goat’s milk, still warm, brought by a red-faced cabin boy. He presented a horn spoon and scampered off quick as a squirrel.
“So, wee one, angels watch over ye.” ’Twas something Granny had said to her in years gone by and now rolled easily from her tongue. But the ache the lullaby wrought remained, and she finished his feeding damp-eyed.
As she set him on the bunk, he gave a satisfied belch, bringing a needed chuckle from her. She took the coral beads from her pocket and dangled them before his snapping blue eyes, weighing the wisdom of using them as a plaything. Brittle, even fragile, they might succumb to the tiniest tooth.
He grabbed at the colorful beads and she drew back, expecting a scowl but gaining a gurgling laugh. Like sunshine he was to her merriment-starved soul.
They played the game till another knock sounded. The same cabin boy. But this time a sober summons.
17
Pity it is that thousands of my country people should be starving at home, when they may live here in peace and plenty.
Roderick Gordon, Scottish ship’s surgeon
“I’m Richard Osbourne of Glasgow, and this is Captain Moodie who’ll see you safely to Virginia.”
The glare of sunlight on deck bespoke a sweltering three o’clock. All around them a great many sweating, harried sailors were preparing the ship to leave port.
At her silence, Osbourne said solemnly, “I hold yer indenture. For three years ye’ll be in service, starting aboard this ship. Though with the babe . . .”
She hugged Larkin closer, like a child would a beloved doll. Would they send her back to the Neptune, encumbered as she was? A wild panic took hold, followed by a hundred unasked questions burning in her brain.
Behind her a shout rang out announcing another arrival. Had she lost her senses? Surely her mind was filling with fancies much like the wind-stiffened sails. She stood slack-jawed as Magnus stepped onto deck. Soon he stood before her. Silent. Equally overcome. She herself could not choke out the barest greeting.
He looked from her to Larkin. Befuddled. Transfixed. Knowing him as she did, sensing his surprise, she wondered if he was trying to reconcile the time since her arrest and a baby’s birth.
“The bairn was given into my care by his aunt, who succumbed to gaol fever yesterday,” she said above the rising wind lest it whip her words away.
“God rest her soul,” Magnus said. He studied her, obviously noting she’d lost a stone or more since she’d left Kerrera, for he said, “Yer well?”
“As of this moment, aye.” This she could barely squeeze past her throat as it tightened with emotion. “And ye?”
“Well enough.” His eyes flashed wry relief. Here they were, he no freer than she, by the state of his convict clothing.
Osbourne sh
ook his hand, conveying a warm association, while the captain stood aloof. All looked at her as Larkin gave a shriek, his gaze and wee hands drawn above his head to a sail being raised. Magnus cracked a smile.
Osbourne chuckled. “We might turn the wee lad into a seaman, aye?”
His kind words assuaged her somewhat. “He’s little trouble. Mostly he sleeps. He’s partial to goat’s milk.”
Osbourne nodded. “I’ve a young son. Infants are fascinating creatures. And this one seems inordinately fond of you.”
She nodded, still puzzling that out. Larkin seemed to have fixed his affection on her from first glance. Had his mother possessed red tresses? She’d never know with his aunt gone so fast, a host of questions unasked. She focused on the immediate present. “Am I to be the only woman aboard?”
The captain spoke when Osbourne was distracted by a cabin boy at his elbow. “The other female prisoners and indentures should arrive soon, as well as a few select male prisoners to round out the crew.”
Select males with sailing expertise? Was Magnus now an indenture, same as she? What of Larkin? Born to a disorderly girl, with a convict aunt, was he a convict too? By the time they reached Virginia, if they did, he’d likely be crawling, a lap baby no longer.
Captain Moodie was regarding Larkin as if thinking the very same. No doubt he’d be the only infant on board.
She met Magnus’s eyes and saw more than simple concern there. Oh, for a quiet corner to talk. He seemed a bit at odds with her again, much like when he’d left Kerrera long ago. Time and distance had driven a wedge between them once more. Or did he bear her a grudge over Isla? But surely he’d been behind her transfer to the Bonaventure. He had friends in high places, both in the city and in the country. And surely Providence was at play most of all. How else could they share the same ship?
One look at all the bobbing boats in so busy a harbor, as well as the hundreds of felons, bespoke the miraculous, lofty connections aside.
The Scotsman across from her was now a hero in homespun, a far cry from the kilted childhood laird she knew, but one who’d always had her best interests at heart.
For now, she’d take comfort in that and her belief that the Lord had a plan, come what may.
That night Magnus dined at the captain’s table with Richard Osbourne. Amid the wink of candles and myriad dishes that bespoke a ship still in port, Magnus listened more than he spoke, at least till called out by his hosts. Much needed learning. Even the drift of conversation eluded him.
“We struck the doldrums after Cabo Verde, going ten miles back again from where we’d started the day before,” the captain said between bites of beef.
“A wretched business any time of year,” Osbourne replied. “I well recall my black leather trunks turning white with mold one sailing. I even failed to free my razor from its case it rusted so fast.”
Magnus’s thoughts tripped down the companionway to Lark, whose accommodations he was unsure of. Small as an ant he felt aboard such a vessel. The ship was crawling with what appeared to be a crew of hundreds. There seemed little room left for even a dozen female convicts and no need for male convicts turned sailors. The term convict troubled him, yet he was one, was he not?
He held fast to the memory of Lark on deck, the sun making a fiery halo of her hair. The shock he’d felt at finding the babe bearing so sharp a resemblance to her still lingered. Anyone who didn’t know better would think the braw lad her child. In his amazement, he’d not asked the lad’s name.
Osbourne merely seemed bemused by the unexpected bairn while the captain was harder to read. But since Osbourne owned both ship and cargo, the captain was in his hire and did his bidding.
God be praised.
For now, he’d rest in the fact Lark was safely aboard. Granted, she’d lost the robust quality, that vibrant spark, she’d always had. Pale as parchment paper she was, shaved thin by lack of nourishment but not by some wasting disease, heaven forbid.
Did she feel as lost as he did? No longer mistress of the castle stillroom but now an indentured mother to boot. And he—in the humble garments that scratched his skin—no longer Kerrera’s bereaved laird but a homeless criminal.
God be praised anyway.
As the sun set and the gulls circled the last day of July, there came twenty-seven women in brown serge, that lackluster convict color that seemed to flatter no one and call out every flaw. Larkin on her hip, Lark held herself apart as the manacles were struck from their wrists one by one, knowing a close association with these unknown women might prove fatal to her charge. When she pondered the babe, it seemed God had saved him for some special purpose. Not that these women intended harm, but some seemed bound for the infirmary with their coughing. She prayed none would see a rough coffin made by the ship’s carpenter.
Kissing Larkin’s brow, she murmured in his ear, “May ye be fruitful, wee one, and health, honesty, and happiness be yer gifts.”
Then came the men, selected for their sea legs. She turned away, keeping her eyes down. She was vaguely aware Magnus kept to the quarterdeck, the officers’ domain, which was elevated and enclosed with a railing. And off-limits to most, be it crew or convicts.
At daybreak, the Bonaventure set sail against a livid scarlet sky. Lark watched from her bull’s-eye window, as the hatches were not yet open to allow women on deck. While Larkin slept in her bunk, she leaned into a post, wincing at the creak of timbers and shouted orders above as the ship heaved and shuddered and seemed more inclined to sink than sail.
More than the terrifying noise, the nose-curling smells, and the nauseating motion was the sickening sense of separation. From Scotland. Granny. All she held dear. Never had she wished to leave it. Hugging the post to stay on her feet, she set her jaw so hard she feared her teeth would crack. For a few inexplicable seconds, Granny’s presence seemed to hover.
Keep count of yer blessings.
Blessings, aye. Magnus. Health. The potted garden on deck that awaited her tending. The pocketed coral beads. And the babe now wedged against the bunk’s far wall, safe from rolling.
A shout sounded and the hatches were finally opened. She enclosed a sleepy Larkin in the sling and began a sort of graceless dance to the rhythm of the ship, grabbing a handhold there, bending a knee here, taking a sudden step to the side or even back a step as she managed the tween deck and then the hatch.
Squinting at first, Larkin soon looked about in wide-eyed wonder. He had an endearing habit of burying his face in her bosom when a sailor came near, as if men were strange, untrustworthy creatures undeserving of a second look.
“Ye must be braw and brave as befits yer name,” Lark said as he stared up at her. “A fierce warrior, aye.”
High above them the sails filled and stretched taut as the Bonaventure found her sea legs. The women in brown serge struggled to find theirs as they emerged through the hatch after Lark.
Saltwater tubs for washing awaited them, and instructions to hang their bedding to air on the yards and rigging, overseen by the ship’s surgeon and a lieutenant. Matrons were chosen as mess captains who dispensed rations from the cook and then oversaw various tasks. A collective grumble went round as some were sent to milk the cows and goats in the bow while others cleaned poultry cages. Skilled needlewomen were set to mending and making shirts from stores of linen. Lark was led to the specially constructed plant cabin on the quarterdeck.
Full of milk, Larkin fell back asleep in the sling as Lark walked about her new domain behind the main mast. Even now Captain Moodie kept to the windward side, spyglass in hand.
She turned her attention to the bounty of plants on all sides of her. Tea trees. Two potted artichokes. Sage. Sorrel. Mint. Tarragon and chives. Currant trees and parsnips and bright-faced marigolds. Fragile hyssop and pennyroyal beside hardy balm and sprawling mint, all in good health. Two of the hives she’d seen earlier were situated among the pots, bees zigzagging hither and yon.
Her fingers brushed a velvety wand of lavender, its purple sp
ires bending in the wind. A few plants already looked slightly spent. Pushing a finger through the soil, she gauged their thirst much as the Bonaventure’s navigator fixed the ship’s position.
Magnus was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Osbourne. Had the owner of the Bonaventure stayed behind in Glasgow? If so, ’twas a loss. He seemed kind. Shrewd. A true Christian gentleman.
She moved toward a water cask and used a wooden dipper to water the plants in need, trying to get her bearings and take note of what was where.
“I hear you’re skilled in botany.” Lieutenant Blackburn, the ship’s surgeon, stood behind her, his blue uniform a contrast to the common red and gray cloth of the enlisted seamen. His tricorne hat was tipped at a jaunty angle, his smile a rarity among the stern-faced sailors. “And are an apiarist.”
She straightened, amused by the grand titles. “Simply the mistress of the stillroom and bee yard.”
“A modest lass, aye? And an angel in disguise, given the bairn isna yer own.”
She looked at him in surprise. News spread like fever from masthead to stern, obviously. “’Tis impossible to forsake a baby.”
“He’s a lucky lad.” He knelt to inspect a mulberry plant. “These are flourishing and well on their way to producing silk. I’ve been experimenting in my cabin with cottonseed and cochineal beetles with less success.”
“For scarlet dye, ye mean?”
“Aye. Perhaps you’d care to come below and have a look.”
Heat inched up her neck at his scrutiny, her water dipper dangling from her hand. What could she say to this? Few could afford cochineal-dyed garments. She’d only seen them in shop windows in Edinburgh.
“The dye sets more firmly on woolens,” she murmured, resuming her watering. “Or so I’ve heard.”
He nodded, left, and then returned with a journal, quill, and ink. Sitting down on a sea chest, he made a desk of sorts. “We’ll work together, you and I. Osbourne has given me charge of recording the health and progress of his unusual botanical garden you’ll tend.”