Behind the Sun Page 11

  It was true he’d had to lobby with some energy for all this, but James had concluded that the master, Captain Josiah Holland, was neither an unkind nor unpleasant man. He was flawed, however, in the sense that he seemed far more at ease with the ocean and the winds than he was with his fellow human beings. Still, James felt confident that he and his charges were in competent hands. Josiah Holland ran a tight and efficient ship, that was already clear; his sailing record must be reasonably unblemished for him to have won the tender to transport the convicts, and his ship sound to have passed the navy’s inspection.

  The Isla, an ordinary merchantman, was, at three hundred and seventy tons, not a particularly large vessel, her deck measuring ninety-seven feet in length and her beam twenty-eight feet. She was a barque, triple-masted and square-rigged. Her hold was deep and she sat low when fully loaded, depending on her cargo, but generally she rode the sea well, according to her captain.

  On this voyage she carried a crew of thirty; her master, three officers, a carpenter, a sailmaker, a cook, twenty-one seamen and two boys. In addition, six ‘free’ passengers would also be travelling to New South Wales: a minister, his wife and their two young daughters, and two gentlemen bound for appointments in the New South Wales government. Which, including the twenty-five children under the age of seven allowed to accompany their convict mothers and the further thirteen prisoners they were to pick up at Portsmouth, gave James a total of one hundred and seventy-one potential patients. He sighed. It was a lot for one surgeon to oversee, but not enough to justify an assistant surgeon and, actually, fewer than he’d superintended on previous trips. Providing no truly disastrous event occurred — a shipwide epidemic or some such — he should manage.

  At the sound of boots on the hospital’s companion ladder he whipped his feet down off his writing desk and sat up as the third mate ushered a young girl into the room.

  James felt his heart plummet. This was the girl who yesterday afternoon had declared she had been feeling poorly of late, but that wasn’t the cause of his anxiety. ‘Sit, please,’ he said, indicating a straight-backed chair next to the examination bed. ‘Thank you, Mr Meek.’

  The girl waited until Third Mate Meek had gone, then sat down, her knees primly together and her eyes downcast.

  James consulted the muster list. ‘Rachel Winter, is that correct?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Aged fifteen?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  She looked up at him, and he knew for certain she was going to be trouble, or at least the cause of it. Her eyes were huge and the exact colour of cornflowers, her pale skin clear if a little anaemic-looking, and her hair thick and extremely fair. She was very, very pretty. And tiny. She had the appearance of a living doll and she would drive the men to distraction. He’d seen it happen before and had no doubt it would happen on this voyage, if he didn’t keep a very close eye on both his charges and Captain Holland’s men. He stifled another sigh.

  ‘Do you have any illnesses, Rachel?’

  He could see she was struggling with her answer. She looked reasonably healthy, except for some sort of sore on the side of her neck, but they all had them, these prison women. It was the profoundly inadequate diet and lack of exercise, he was convinced of it. He wondered if she might be a little simple, which would be a terrible shame, with such lovely looks.

  ‘You said yesterday you had been feeling unwell for some time. Have you had a cough, or bleeding, or eruptions of pus or anything like that? Perhaps —’

  ‘No,’ she said suddenly, scowling at him. ‘I lied. I’ve not been sick at all.’

  Briefly he pondered what might have solicited such a cross outburst, then went back to his notes. ‘You’re not married?’

  It paid to make sure, as some women declared they were when they weren’t, wrongly believing that newly arrived female convicts were automatically assigned to their husbands and intending to pose as the wives of friends or colleagues already in New South Wales in the hope of gaining more freedom. This frequently caused problems when they lodged genuine applications to marry. Though some women, of course, actually did have common law or legal spouses serving sentences in New South Wales or Van Diemen’s Land.

  ‘I’m betrothed. My fiancé is a soldier.’

  She said this with such defiance that James suspected there was much more to the story than he was ever going to be told.

  ‘Is there a chance that you could be with child?’

  She looked away. ‘No, there isn’t.’

  ‘Would you please recline on the table so that I may examine you?’

  He busied himself rearranging things on his desk while she climbed up on the table and lay down, her gaze fixed on the lamp that swung slowly from the ceiling.

  ‘If I touch you anywhere that causes pain or discomfort, you must tell me, do you understand?’

  She nodded. She was filthy and she stank, but they all did. He was accustomed to foul smells, of course, but the stink that clung to the inmates of England’s prisons seemed to have an eye-watering intensity all of its own. He reminded himself to check that extra water barrels had been ordered aboard so they could all bathe thoroughly and launder what remained of their civilian clothing prior to sailing.

  He began his examination. Palpating her arms and legs through the fabric of her clothing he found no evidence of recent or past broken bones, felt no telltale swelling of the lower belly that would indicate pregnancy, and saw no major abnormalities of the skin visible to him apart from gaol sores. Until he appointed female assistants who could act as chaperones he would not be carrying out examinations of an intimate nature and then only if expressly required. He had colleagues who had found themselves in deeply compromising situations due to attempts at blackmail, or simply as the result of malicious behaviour, and he had no intention of being caught in the same trap. It meant he could not initially examine for indications of syphilis or gonorrhoea, but to put off the ship women afflicted with those particular maladies would be to sail with the prison deck half empty, which would defeat the purpose of the voyage. He put his stethoscope to his ear, listened to her breathing and heard nothing untoward.

  ‘Sit up, please.’

  He looked into her mouth, noting that she had all her teeth and that her gums were reasonably healthy, in her ears and into her eyes. Then he paused.

  ‘Blink, please.’

  She blinked.

  ‘Again.’

  She did it again. He moved his face closer to hers, covered her left eye with his hand, then uncovered it. The right pupil was larger than the left and didn’t change regardless of the amount of light it received.

  ‘Has your eye always been like this?’ He tapped her right temple.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘The pupil seems to be fixed. Do you suffer from pains in the head?’

  ‘I…no, not really.’

  ‘In bright sunlight do you find yourself squinting?’

  ‘No.’

  James peered into her eye a moment longer. Perhaps it was simply a congenital abnormality. He sat down at his desk. ‘You appear fit and hale to me, Rachel. The boil on your neck seems to be on the mend. If it doesn’t improve, come to me for a poultice.’

  She slid off the table and straightened her skirts. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. You may go.’

  She left, disappearing through the curtains. He stared after her for quite a while. She might not be pregnant now, but he had a horrible feeling he could have the devil’s own job making sure she remained that way over the next few months.

  The last of the Newgate women arrived with their children late that afternoon. By the time they’d all embarked, come below, fought over the remaining berths, changed into their new slops, stowed their belongings, eaten supper, walked round the deck for the fresh air on which Mr Downey seemed so keen, been sent below again for the night, been told to shut up by the first mate, and tentatively settled in, it was nine o’clock. The children, however, all under th
e age of seven and either frightened or overexcited, could not effectively be kept quiet, which caused the majority of women without children to shout at those who had them, which upset the children further, which caused the master himself to storm down the ladder and threaten troublemakers with a night in the solitary cells in the hold. When he left, the women discovered that the hatch had been locked, and had been all along, which made Friday and Sarah laugh because they were, after all, in a floating prison. Friday began to bash the ceiling with her wooden bowl, daring Liz Parker to forget about playing bloody cards for once and get off her arse and show some spunk — there could be a fire in here and if they couldn’t get out they’d all be burnt to a crisp. In less than a minute the aisles were jammed with women all banging on the roof and shouting to be let out, except for Friday, who had gone back to her bunk.

  It wasn’t long before Captain Holland reappeared, his face livid in the glow of his lamp, accompanied by several of his men bearing drawn pistols. Bellowing to be heard over the yells and hammering and catcalls of the women and the piercing shrieks of the children, he finally drew his own pistol and let loose a shot. The women scattered like rats to their berths, leaving Liz Parker, too heavy to move quickly, marooned in the middle of the prison deck. At a signal from the captain she was unceremoniously dragged up the ladder, swearing the air blue.

  At the top she dug in her toes momentarily and screeched down at Friday, ‘I’ll get you for this, you scabby whore!’

  Friday waved gaily and snuggled under her blanket.

  Eventually, the cabin settled and the children, exhausted from such a long and eventful day, nodded off. The Thames lapped with an almost unbroken rhythm against the Isla’s hull and her timbers creaked as she rocked gently. The snores and somnolent mumbles began.

  Harrie, lying next to Friday, whispered, ‘Have you felt sick yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Maybe I’m cured, eh?’

  ‘Did you tell the surgeon?’

  ‘What for?’

  Harrie propped herself on one elbow. She could barely see Friday’s face in the gloom, though her rich copper hair still gleamed softly. ‘He might have something that will help.’

  ‘Would he give me gin, d’you think?’

  Harrie could hear the tease in Friday’s voice. ‘No, I mean real medicine.’

  Friday put her arms behind her head and closed her eyes. ‘Go to sleep, Harrie. Stop fretting. You’re a terrible worrywart, you are.’

  Harrie waited a full minute. ‘Friday?’

  ‘Oh, go to sleep, Harrie, will you?’ grumbled Sarah.

  ‘What?’ Friday said on a sigh.

  ‘Why do you hate Liz Parker so much?’

  Friday’s eyes opened again. ‘Because she’s a nasty piece of work, that’s why. And a thief and a cheat and an intemperate gambler. And because she nicked our money, obviously.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s enough, isn’t it? Why? Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I don’t know. Because it upsets me.’

  ‘Leave it, Harrie,’ Sarah warned.

  Carefully, to avoid connecting with the bunk above her, Friday sat up and hunched over her bent knees. ‘If you must know, Madam Nosy, I hate the way she carries on with the girls. She tempts them with food and trinkets and says she loves them and she’ll look after them. But she’s not really…one for the ladies. She’s got a man and a litter of kids at home. She only does it because under all that flash mob shite she’s weak and doesn’t want to be alone. She’s not honest. She’s…double-dipping.’

  Sarah laughed. ‘None of us are honest. That’s why we’re here.’

  Friday lay down again and wriggled around until she got comfortable. ‘I don’t know. I can’t put it into better words than that. But she really gets up my snout.’ She gave a little grin. ‘Anyway, it’s good sport. Like bear-baiting.’

  Sarah eyed Harrie and said, ‘Sorry you asked?’

  Harrie made a face. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Can we all be quiet now?’ Rachel said, her voice muffled by the pillow clutched over her ear. ‘I want to go to sleep. My head hurts.’

  Six

  After breakfast the following morning the entire contingent of convict women and their children were locked out of the prison deck and mustered on the waistdeck, squeezed among piles of provisions not yet stowed away, to listen to Captain Holland, who had donned his best coat with silver buttons and his passé but still splendid tricorne hat to add authority to his announcements. Beside him on the afterdeck at the Isla’s stern stood his officers and the surgeon superintendent. The remainder of the Isla’s crew lined the waistdeck’s gunwales and the rail of the foredeck, vigilant against possible escapees and secretly hoping for some such spectacle. Overhead, shore and marsh birds wheeled and cried, clashing noisily with gulls over scraps from the dockyard and ships moored nearby.

  The master began by castigating the prisoners for the previous night’s minor riot. ‘Behaviour like that will not be tolerated!’ he exhorted, his voice competing with the mild wind coming off the Thames and winning easily. ‘Let it not be forgotten that you are prisoners of His Majesty the King and for your crimes the courts of England have sentenced you to transportation to lands beyond the sea! For the purposes of this voyage this is a prison ship and Mr Downey and myself are authorised to administer punishment as we see fit. And rest assured we will!’ He paused to let the gravity of the message sink in, scowling down at the women below him, then opened a journal and cleared his throat. ‘Each day will be effectuated according to a timetable. You will break into messes of six and each mess will —’ He looked up as the women began to shuffle around, finding friends, forming little clusters. ‘Not now! When you have been dismissed!’ When the women had settled again he continued. ‘Each mess will elect a mess captain, who will draw the ration for her mess every morning and be responsible for overseeing the washing of bowls and eating utensils, the cleanliness of berths and the orderly conduct of messmates. Mr Downey will shortly select attendants for the hospital and draw up rosters for cleaning the prison deck and tending to the water closets. The ship’s cook will prepare all meals in the galley; meals will be eaten below deck; no cooking will be permitted below deck. At sunrise the hatch will be opened and buckets placed on deck to facilitate prisoners’ ablutions daily, providing the weather is clement.’

  This drew a gasp from the women.

  Ignoring it, Captain Holland carried on. ‘Also daily, the deck will be swabbed and bedding rolled and brought up for airing, again providing the weather is clement. This must be completed by eight o’clock, when you will muster prior to breakfast. The prison deck will then be holystoned — dry, not wet — and the surrounds scrubbed. Those rostered to specific duties will attend to them. Laundry will be done twice a week, including that of the crew. Materials will be made available for those of you who wish to do needlework and a school for reading and writing will assemble providing suitable tutors can be found. Dinner will be at noon, supper at four o’clock. You will muster at five o’clock for prayers, after which bedding will be taken below again. On the recommendation of the surgeon superintendent there will then be dancing, games and exercise above deck before you retire. The prison hatch will be locked at seven o’clock. Below deck there will be no striking of lights, no smoking of pipes, no cards or dice, thieving or fighting. Severe punishment will be administered to any prisoner found to be fraternising with the crew. Foul language and insubordination will also be punished. There will be no contact with the free passengers when they come aboard. Due to unforeseen circumstances, we will be departing Woolwich in three days’ time, briefly dropping anchor at Portsmouth, then leaving English waters and sailing south-west.’ Captain Holland closed his journal with a snap and handed it to First Mate Silas Warren.

  There was a brief silence as the women on the deck below him absorbed his final sentence, then rose a great wail of grief as they realised that for most of them there would no chance to say goodbye
to family, friends and lovers. Other ships, they’d heard, had remained in port for up to three weeks before setting sail, so few had yet sent for their people.

  Deeply disconcerted by such a raw outpouring of feminine distress, Josiah Holland glared down at the miserable assemblage before him, daring the women to overtly challenge anything he had said. But not a single one did, which amazed him and left him feeling more uneasy than if the wretches had railed at him directly.

  This was his fifth and final charter transporting convicts to New South Wales, and he had only tendered for it because the cargos he was shipping to and from Port Jackson, plus what he was paid to carry the convicts themselves, made the voyage significantly worthwhile in financial terms.

  The female convicts were always the worst. Of course it was unlucky to sail with women aboard ship: every sailor knew that. Also, they misbehaved, they ran around screeching, they lied, they scratched and fought, they jabbered all the time and laughed too loudly, they were lewd and dirty, they fouled his ship with their filthy female bodily emissions, they fraternised with his men and they gave him terrible, humiliating dreams. James Downey was convinced that the needlework, the school for letters and the exercise routines he had devised would keep them gainfully occupied, or at least too occupied to play up, but Holland had seen it all before and had considerable doubts about that. Downey had seen it before, too, Holland knew, and should damn well know better.