by Carol Jones
Around her the other men were stirring, alerted by the proximity of land and the sailors clambering in the rigging above their heads. She and Big Nose weren’t the only ones to realise that something was afoot, for soon the entire deck was filled with a hubbub of noise. And as the Phaeton sailed towards the approaching promontory, the anxious voices of her fellow passengers rose above the flap of sails and swish of the bow wave.
Where were they?
A stiff shore breeze brushed her cheeks as the sun rose higher above the brown flat land that stretched to the horizon. It looked so different to the ordered fields, wide rivers and lush green mountains of her homeland. It appeared wild and barren, and not at all welcoming. Then she noticed that the captain had arrived on the bridge and was standing in earnest conversation with the first mate.
‘Ready about!’ shouted the mate, his voice echoing in the wind, and all around him the crew responded to his command by increasing the urgency of their activity. Strong Arm watched as sailors loosened the ropes controlling the sails, so that they flapped about in the breeze. All the while the crew shouted encouragement to each other, as the timbers of the ship creaked and groaned beneath them and the pulleys and winches clanked against the masts.
‘Hard aport!’ shouted the mate, and the Phaeton responded by turning slowly into the breeze, heading straight towards the beach, it seemed to her. But the wind was gusting now, setting the sails to whipping and cracking, and she could feel the ocean clutching at the ship’s hull. Unlike the rafts that plied the rivers and creeks of her home, a ship of this size did not turn quickly. And now the Phaeton appeared to be labouring in the wind. Instead of completing its turn about, the ship stalled, leaving it stranded like a wounded duck, at the mercy of wind and wave. She felt the deck tip as a huge swell caught the ship’s beam and propelled it sideways across the water.
‘All hands on deck!’ bellowed the mate.
Above their heads, the sails flapped futilely as the ship was carried along by the rising swell and the gusting wind. Somehow the captain had underestimated the power of the surf and the strength of the breeze. She grabbed her friend’s arm and fought her way across the tilting deck to a rail where they could hold on, trying to stay out of the way of the shouting, scurrying sailors. Trying not to be lost overboard. She had felt the water’s might once before on the moonlit night of the Seven Sisters festival. She did not wish to risk it again.
‘Should we go below?’ Big Nose suggested above the noise. ‘It may be safer.’
‘If the ship sinks we will be trapped.’
They clung to the rail as chaos reigned around them, sailors clinging to the rigging as the Phaeton was swept up in the swell, beyond control of captain or crew. It slid across the glistening sea until it was brought to a booming, shuddering halt, as if the very fabric of the ship had been torn asunder. From the sound of the crash, Strong Arm felt sure that a hole must be ripped in the ship’s hull and water already flooding into the hold. She thought of the men below, the men she had lived cheek by jowl with for two moons. If the ship took on water they would be trapped by the iron-barred hatches that were bolted closed every night. She imagined them struggling to stay afloat in their watery cavern as waves engulfed the Phaeton, filling the hold, then the between decks, before dragging the entire ship beneath the waves.
But to free them she would have to release her grip upon the rail to open the hatch, and she did not know what would happen to the ship next. She would have to trust to the whims of fate and the will of the gods. She had already done that once, when she waded into the river to save Siu Wan. She had done it a second time when she left her family behind and boarded the Phaeton to sail across the ocean. She did not know whether she had the strength to do so again. What if she was washed overboard? She would be swallowed by the waves that swirled about the listing ship. And who amongst these foreign sailors would jump in to save her? Young Wu had saved her once. Never again.
Then she took a deep breath. In the chaos wrought by the waves, the crew appeared to have forgotten about their human cargo. It was up to her and her countrymen on deck to free them.
‘We must open the hatches!’ she said to Big Nose, her voice whisked away by the wind. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that one of the other men was also hurrying towards the hatches. Releasing her grasp on the rail, Strong Arm hauled herself hand-over-hand towards the nearest hatch trying not to think about water, waves or indeed the often fickle nature of gods.
26
Violet rose earlier than usual that morning, in order to be gone from the house before her employer stirred. She was so keen to be gone that she had reduced her toilette to a mere fifteen minutes. She considered ignoring Mrs Wallace’s ultimatum, for she suspected that old Billy would have neither the will nor strength to haul her bodily down the stairs, but then again, she would not put it past the woman to attempt the deed herself. A wrestling bout with her employer on the Persian rug did not appeal. Although undoubtedly Violet would have won, given the scrawny nature of the other woman’s arms.
So she had packed a small valise with a change of attire, leaving her trunk for Billy to deliver when she sent word of new lodgings, and tiptoed from the house just after dawn. She thrust the thought of Alice from her mind. The girl would survive without her, despite her mother, and there was nothing she could do to change the situation. Mrs Wallace had spoken. Violet would write to her when she was settled, in the meantime, Becky Sharp’s guidance would have to suffice. Violet’s more immediate problem was how to find a new position. Four solitary gold sovereigns clinked at the bottom of her reticule. She had retrieved them from Mr Wallace’s hatbox when she knew his wife to be in the kitchen. Violet wasn’t a woman to be swindled of her wages, and she doubted that the wealthy grazier would court gossip about town by reporting her to the constabulary or his wife. Mrs Wallace was another story. She could keep her sovereigns.
It was too early to make her way into town without inciting talk amongst the townsfolk – who were grateful for any and every morsel of gossip – so she decided upon a stroll out to the Cape to pass time away from prying eyes and to consider her future… which she had to admit was looking far from rosy. This wasn’t the first time she had been dismissed, nor was it the first time she had been left homeless. Like many an unmarried woman, hers was a precarious position. She was employed at the whim of others, subject to their good opinion, vulnerable to their good faith, susceptible to their promises. And others could not always be trusted to keep either their faith or their promises, in her experience.
She listened to the coins clinking in her reticule and considered them scant recompense for her current situation. She had been lured ten thousand miles by the promise of employment and now it had been snatched from under her. And like her previous employer, Mrs Wallace was guaranteed to spread lies about her, so that procuring another position as governess in the colonies might prove difficult. For all her optimism, at this particular moment, Violet was bereft of ideas.
Her thoughts in ferment, she did not realise how far she had walked through the scrub until the sand beneath her feet gave way to rock, and she emerged from the dunes to find herself standing upon the rugged promontory of Cape Dombey. Even on a still day the breeze blew fresh upon the cape, and the ocean churned below the cliffs. Today the wind gusted so ferociously that she dare not venture close to the cliff’s edge for fear of being borne away. Her petticoats billowed about her legs like a ship in full sail, so that she had to set down her valise to do her battle with them.
As she struggled to bring some order to her person, she glanced to the south where the coast stretched away in a series of rugged inlets, wild surf pounding the cliffs. At the entrance to these inlets an islet rose from the seabed, the rocks eroded aeon after aeon until they formed an archway, an archway that led only to danger. Ahead of her, at the tip of the cape, the white pyramid of an obelisk towered in warning to any ship unwise enough to venture close. White seabirds with grey wings and feathery
black crests like hats nested on the rocky plateau leading out to the obelisk, defying both wind and rain. Yet there was no refuge to be found here for Violet, not from the wind, the churning waters, nor her thoughts. Guichen Bay had proved no haven for her.
So, what to do next? She would have to go somewhere beyond the reach of Mrs Wallace’s vindictive tentacles. Somewhere the grazier’s wife was unknown. For there was no going back to London. The earl’s daughter would make her life hell the moment she set foot upon those shores. There was small hope of employment there, even if she could find the funds to return, for that shrewish woman had turned the whole of London society against her, and her husband had done nothing to prevent it. He had done nothing to protect Violet or her reputation. His backbone was made of empty promises. His love was as fickle as the wind.
Once again, Violet had only herself to depend upon. ‘And only yourself to blame,’ whispered a voice in her head, but she determined not to listen to it. Instead, she directed her attention to the sweep of Guichen Bay, pondering the question of how to find cheap yet respectable lodgings to eke out her small store of sovereigns. A ship was approaching from the north, a tall three-master. Not so long ago she would have been surprised to see a ship of this size entering Guichen Bay. Unlike the coastal steamers that plied these waters, the clipper was too large to moor at the town’s jetty and would have to weigh anchor in deeper water. But two weeks earlier, to the town’s amazed good fortune, the British ship Land of Cakes had appeared in the bay out of nowhere – or out of Hong Kong, to be precise – bringing a cargo of Celestials bound for the goldfields. Like those arriving by steamer from Adelaide, the Chinamen were evading the Victorian poll tax. But the Land of Cakes had bypassed the port of Adelaide and instead sailed direct to Guichen Bay, enlisting half the town’s small population in ferrying the passengers to shore and providing them with provisions. Then the Cornwall had followed it just a few days ago.
The approaching ship was even larger, twice as big from the look of it, and totally unprepared for the local conditions. She stood watching as it attempted to tack into the bay but was caught in a swell and swept onto one of the many sandbanks that formed there. Even from her perch a mile away, she could see the ship listing sideways. It would soon be taking on water. The crew would have to get their passengers over the side and into boats swiftly, or the Celestials’ voyage would end at the bottom of Guichen Bay.
If she hadn’t been so worried about her own situation, she would have felt sorry for them. They had come so far in their quest for riches, like all those who had come before them, the thousands of men and women who had uprooted their lives and descended upon the Victorian diggings from every corner of the world. There were probably numerous children running wild on the diggings at Ballarat, Bendigo and the like. Children of parents who had struck gold. Children whose parents knew nothing of Mrs Wallace or any of her acquaintance. Children who quite possibly had no one to provide a suitable education, or at least an education befitting their parents’ new-found fortune. No one to elevate them to their new-won status or teach them the finer points of French grammar, geography and the delights of arithmetic.
Unless, of course, those parents were lucky enough to procure the services of a respected governess. One who had tutored the grandchildren of an earl. A governess with the impeccable credentials of one Miss Violet Hartley.
Perhaps she too could strike gold upon the diggings.
27
The deck swarmed with passengers, the captain’s wife and children amongst them. Despite the chaos surrounding her, this fact reassured Strong Arm, for the captain would not let his family drown. Already he and his wife grieved for one of their children who had died of sickness shortly after departing Hong Kong. If the captain believed his vessel were about to sink, surely he would put his remaining family in a longboat and row for shore. Comforted by this thought, she huddled on the foredeck with Big Nose and her fellow countrymen, all hugging the baskets that contained their futures, the only things they had salvaged from between decks. They did their best to stay out of the crew’s path as the men rushed to carry out the mate’s orders. Meanwhile, the waves swirled about the bow that was pointed shoreward, yet going nowhere.
Some time later, the bosun’s whistle piped, shrilly enough to be heard above the commotion. ‘Furl sail and square the yards!’
The words were incomprehensible to Strong Arm, but the bosun’s meaning became evident as the sailors set to work, shuffling along the rigging, grabbing and punching at the billowing sails before rolling them up and making them secure.
‘Let go anchor!’ ordered the mate.
The crew seemed so purposeful that for a time she hoped all would be well, that the ship would sit tight until the rising tide could release it from whatever reef or sandbank held it captive. But the ship continued to fill with water, despite the men labouring at the pumps. At one point Big Nose peeked through the hatch, returning to report that there were at least three chi of water flooding the between decks and no sign of the sea relenting. But what could they do? Their fate was in the hands of the crew… and the gods. All they could do was wait.
*
The sun was high overhead by the time the bosun shouted, ‘Ready the boats!’
Strong Arm’s hopes faded as she recognised the word ‘boats’. So… the captain could not save the ship and they were to be put ashore. She watched in dismay as the first boat was lowered into the surf to crash futilely against the ship’s hull. When it became apparent that the sea was too wild for the small boat to make shore, the bosun ordered it to be raised once more. She could only stare helplessly at the waves swirling below.
Big Nose nudged her in the ribs with an elbow to get her attention. ‘Do we jump?’
‘Can you swim?’ she asked, looking doubtfully at the surf.
Big Nose nodded. ‘Like a fish. I was raised on a boat.’
‘I was raised on a mulberry grove.’
Her friend blinked, not knowing what to say to this. Although they were of an age, because of her slight frame, Big Nose was under the impression that Strong Arm was scarcely more than a boy, and she had not disabused him of this notion. Yet despite his greater size and his familiarity with the ways of the big city, he still looked to her for agreement. Perhaps he was so accustomed to being an outsider that he treasured this new friendship all the more, and did not want to jeopardise it.
‘Perhaps the gods will look kindly upon me,’ Strong Arm added with a shrug. She said it to reassure her friend, so that Big Nose would save himself if the time came to abandon ship. If he tried to save her they would likely both drown. She felt sure that she had already used up the gods’ goodwill. That time she had been fortunate, narrowly escaping the water ghosts who reputedly lurked in rivers and seas, waiting to drag the living beneath the surface and steal their bodies. If not for Young Wu arriving on the riverbank, perhaps some other soul might have inhabited her body. But it wasn’t the water ghosts who haunted her now. It was the Wus.
She shook her head, trying to rid herself of this thought. She did not want to think about Young Wu, son of Big Wu. He was the source of all her troubles. Not her saviour. If he had not delivered her to his father’s lair, she would not have needed to defend herself. She would not have caused her family so much loss. She would not have the memory of Big Wu to haunt her. She did not want to encourage any more ghosts.
‘Do not worry,’ said Big Nose, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly, as if reading her thoughts, ‘it will not come to that. We haven’t journeyed so far to fail now. Somehow we will make it to shore, and then we will find our way to New Gold Mountain, even if we have to walk ten thousand li.’
She peered over the side of the ship, where cresting waves frothed white, and towering breakers cascaded towards the beach, and wished she shared her friend’s confidence.
*
By the time Violet reached the jetty, a crowd had gathered. It seemed like the entire population of Robetown was assembled on th
e beach outside Mr Ormerod’s store to watch the foundering ship. Amongst a group of ladies sheltering from the wind beneath a grove of casuarina trees, she spied Mrs Brewer and Mrs MacDonald, clutching at hats and bonnets that threatened to fly from their heads in the next gust. No doubt, they discussed preparations for tending the stricken immigrants, if they should make it ashore. She was about to join them when she noticed Lewis Thomas in conversation with Mr Melville, the harbourmaster. He stood with his back to her but she recognised instantly the curl of that midnight hair upon his collar, and the way the moleskin trousers fitted his thighs. Despite her troubles, her spirits rose and her pulse quickened at the sight of the bullocky. She had not seen him since the day James took sick.
As if he sensed her presence he turned away from the ocean and lifted a hand in acknowledgement. She smiled and waved in return, before heading over to join the other women. As they watched, a boat was lowered over the side. It bobbed in the water for a few moments before smashing against the ship’s hull. The ladies’ communal intake of breath was loud enough to be heard above the gusting wind.
‘The swell is too great,’ observed Mrs Brewer.
‘The ship may break up before this gale abates long enough to lower the boats,’ said Mrs MacDonald.
‘The captain should have waited for a pilot,’ chided Mrs Ormerod.
‘Well, it is too late for that now,’ said Mrs Brewer with a tired sigh.
Violet thought she did not sound her usual hearty self. Perhaps she felt the strain of caring for so many sick men. Judging this as good a moment as any to announce her presence, she ventured a few steps closer, saying, ‘We can only trust to God’s mercy to save those poor men now.’