Behind the Sun (12 page)

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.’

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.

But he was the naval surgeon, and the navy represented the government, and the government was paying. And to tell the truth he wasn’t really averse to sharing authority with James Downey, who seemed a decent enough chap, at least when it came to matters not concerning the running of the ship. The less he himself had to do with these women, the better. Last night Downey had gone ashore so it had fallen to him to sort out the fracas below deck and it had been like stepping down into
hell
.

Apparently now, thank God, the prisoners intended to limit their protestations to weeping and whining, so he stomped down the companion ladder from the afterdeck and into his cabin.

‘Pompous bloody arsehole,’ Sarah hissed.

They stood where they were, stunned by the captain’s announcement regarding their early departure from Woolwich, until the first mate shouted at them to go below again.

Rachel threw herself onto their bunk and declared, ‘Well, I’m not cleaning the bogs. I’ve had enough of shit.’ She put her pillow over head and started to cry.

‘I think we’ll all be having a turn,’ Harrie remarked, forcing false cheer into her wobbling voice. ‘It sounds like everyone’s going to be on Mr Downey’s rosters.’ She busied herself straightening a blanket, then she, too, began to weep.

For a fleeting moment Friday considered volunteering to take Rachel’s place on the bog-cleaning roster, just to cheer her up, but there were limits even to her generosity. She felt desperate for her, though, as Rachel’s family would certainly have come to Woolwich to see her off if they’d had the chance. Friday knew, too, that Rachel still believed somewhere down in the very core of her being that her soldier would come to save her at the last minute. But he’d better hurry up, because now he only had three days left.

Rachel and Harrie weren’t the only ones weeping. Distressed murmurs then cries rose around them as the true impact of Captain Holland’s announcement sank home; in only seventy-two hours the
Isla
would sail and most aboard her would never see England or their loved ones again. A great wave of grief seemed to engulf the prison deck as women keened and wept and tugged at their hair, so when a single voice screamed in terror, no one at first noticed it.

The scream resounded again, higher and sharper this time; the lamenting and anguished praying in the cabin faltered and the women one by one quietened. The silence disclosed a dreadful, low-pitched grinding noise emanating from the floorboards towards the bow.

Matilda Bain wailed, ‘Lord have mercy, we’re sinking!’

No one moved for perhaps two seconds, then fresh screams erupted followed by a panicked stampede for the ladder, which was immediately jammed with shoving, scratching, shrieking women. Those who reached the top became wedged so firmly in the hatchway that the sunlight was blocked. The grinding noise continued and the ship, horrifyingly, tilted slightly to port.

Friday grabbed Rachel, who, being so small, had found herself forced to the floor by the crush of struggling bodies, and hauled her along, her boots barely touching the deck, towards the hatch, violently elbowing others out of the way. Harrie and Sarah followed directly in her wake, doing their share of shoving and screaming, scared witless of not getting out before the ship went down.

A pistol shot rang out, sharply audible above the terrified weeping and cries for mercy. Suddenly silenced, the women crowding the ladder froze, there was a second’s hiatus, then they awkwardly untangled themselves and backed down a step or two, followed by Captain Holland, silhouetted against the light.

‘Get back to your berths, all of you, and remain there!’

‘Have mercy, sir!’ someone entreated. ‘Please! Do not drown us!’

The master turned his attention to the deck above him, listened, heaved a great, vexed sigh, then retreated. Mr Downey appeared in
his place and gently but firmly cleared everyone off the companion ladder.

Raising his hands in a calming gesture, he said loudly so everyone could hear, ‘There is no need to panic, the ship is not sinking. I say again,
the ship is not sinking
! The noise you can hear is simply the sound of the anchor being raised. Captain Holland has ordered that the ship be towed a short distance out into the Thames for our remaining time here.’

‘Bugger,’ Sarah said in Friday’s ear, ‘if that’s all it was we could have had a go at grabbing our money.’

‘What for? Why are we being towed?’ Liz Parker demanded in an attempt to re-establish her authority, having been one of the first to reach the companion ladder during the panic.

‘To minimise opportunities for escape,’ James Downey replied, clearly seeing no need for obfuscation.

Muttering and the beginnings of indignation and protest began as the women made their way back to their bunks.

‘That’s me buggered, then,’ Friday said to Harrie.

Harrie gasped. ‘Were you going to try to escape?’

Friday laughed at the look of shock on her friend’s face. Laughing felt good and it helped to ease the terrible rate at which her heart still galloped at the thought of being trapped inside the ship as it filled with cold, murky water and dragged her down into the mud beneath the Thames.

‘Doubt it. I’d go straight to the bottom with all that gin tied round my neck.’

James Downey treated one broken wrist, a severely sprained ankle, multiple cuts and bruises and two cases of hysteria after the anchor-raising incident. He also had a heated discussion with Josiah Holland in the privacy of the captain’s cabin about his not having informed the prisoners that the
Isla
was about to be towed away from the quay. The captain, feeling guilty, argued that he
shouldn’t have to inform a cargo of convict women of every single order he gave; James countered by pointing out that probably not one of them had been aboard a tall ship before — of course they would panic if it suddenly rattled and rumbled and shifted beneath them. He also suggested that the women would more likely behave if they were made aware of what to expect, and when, rather than be subjected to frightening surprises.

‘I told them what to expect,’ Captain Holland insisted. ‘You were there.’

‘You told them what their domestic schedule is to be and what they are prohibited from doing.’

The captain made a hurrumphing noise. ‘You speak of them as though they’re first-class passengers I should be inviting to dine at my table. They are not, Mr Downey, they are convicted felons. Whores and thieves. No doubt both.’

James silently asked God to forgive him for evoking His name for advantage. ‘Do you consider yourself to be a Christian man, Captain?’

‘What?’ Josiah Holland looked startled.

‘
I
do, sir,’ James went on earnestly. ‘I know already from our short acquaintance that you harbour deeply Christian principles. You must forgive me for being so impertinent as to suggest this, and for suggesting it so bluntly, but you could demonstrate those principles handsomely by exhibiting a little charity. Think of Our Lord’s example: He associated with the lowest of the low.’

The captain’s already pink face flushed with indignation. After a moment, however, perhaps recalling that James had as much authority as he did on this voyage, he gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘What are you suggesting, Mr Downey?’

‘Just that they be treated with some small amount of dignity. This is, after all, to be their home for the next four months. And we are in fact departing Woolwich with uncommon speed. Many of them will not have had time to farewell family and friends and
will be suffering because of it.’ James raised a hand to ward off the captain’s interruption. ‘I’m well aware that the winds and tides are favourable and that we should take advantage of them. I am a naval man myself, you will recall. And obviously I’m not suggesting we consult the prisoners about every matter — you are of course the master of this ship — but if they know at least that they are in no immediate danger, they may feel less…wretched, and therefore be easier to manage.’ He hurried on as the captain again opened his mouth to interject. ‘And yes, we must abide by the rules — yours and mine — and administer punishment when necessary. Christian charity can only carry us so far! We can’t have individuals running amok, or cliques holding sway over the prison deck. But I’m convinced that given the opportunity, most of these women will respond to kindness and consideration.’

Clearly unconvinced, Josiah Holland raised his wiry eyebrows. ‘And if they don’t?’