Behind the Sun (13 page)

James met his gaze steadily. ‘Then at least
we
will have done the Christian thing.’

On the afternoon two days prior to the
Isla
’s departure from Woolwich, the women of Newgate received a small party of visitors. The women, allowed on deck for hours at a time now that the ship had anchored farther out into the Thames, watched as a wherry rowed by a straining waterman approached across the river’s choppy surface. Seated in the centre were three women, heads bowed against the stiff breeze, hands gripping the brims of their plain grey bonnets.

‘It’s Elizabeth Fry,’ Sarah said as she leant on the ship’s rail. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of her.’

‘I didn’t,’ Harrie said, who had a lot of respect for Mrs Fry and the Ladies’ Newgate Committee. ‘I knew they’d come if they could.’

Sarah gave Harrie a sour look but said nothing. She didn’t altogether trust Mrs Fry and her ilk. The campaigner was a
Quaker, and it was true that her work had improved conditions for women in Newgate Goal, but Sarah wasn’t overly impressed with the price extracted for those improvements — endless bible readings, the singing of hymns and allegiance to a God she didn’t have much time for. Harrie was quite religious and prayed every day and what have you, and Sarah didn’t begrudge her that at all. Perhaps it was the praying that made her the cheerful, calm and persistently helpful person she was, but probably not; she suspected Harrie had been born with those qualities.

But it wasn’t Sarah’s cup of tea at all. Her mother and father had been extremely religious, but it had done her mother no good in the end and her father had made a complete mockery of it. She, Sarah, had prayed a lot when she had been younger. In fact, she’d prayed so much she’d just about worn the skin off her knees, but no one had heard her. No one at all. So why did God listen to some of his flock and not others? She’d thought about the matter at length and found it hugely confusing and demoralising. Either Christians were misguided, or it was all a great, festering heap of lies; an immense fabrication, designed to catch people like a spider traps insects in a sticky web. But did that make God a spider? Perhaps it did, because spiders did horrible things to the prey they caught and Sarah had certainly seen some horrible things happen to people in her time.

The waterman manoeuvred the wherry alongside the
Isla
’s hull and the bosun’s chair was lowered. He drew in his oars, laid them safely in the bottom of the wherry and held the chair steady. From above the sight was somewhat comical as Mrs Fry slipped the ropes of the chair over her bonneted head and eased the narrow seat under her considerable bottom. But no one laughed, for she was generally respected among the women of Newgate, if not always appreciated, had gone to considerable effort to be ferried out to the ship and was putting herself at real risk using the bosun’s chair. The women, hanging over the rail and cheering Mrs Fry on, applauded as the chair was hoisted up, sending her stout, cape-wrapped body
twirling slowly and swinging from side to side like a roosting bat.

The rope was deftly snagged with the aid of a boat hook and Mrs Fry pulled in and deposited safely on the deck, nothing more askew than her bonnet, which she quickly straightened. Captain Holland greeted her with exaggerated courtesy, then stood at her side in silence while her lady friends were winched inelegantly up from the wherry. That achieved without incident, he rather stiffly invited them to his cabin for refreshments.

‘Thank you very kindly, Captain,’ Mrs Fry said in a refined but authoritative voice. ‘Unfortunately I fear we cannot spare the time for social niceties. You sail on the morning tide, I understand? Then we would like to begin our work immediately. I’m sure you also have much still to do.’ She gestured at the pair of trunks that had followed her companions up from the wherry. ‘We have brought with us parting gifts for the women from the Society and we would like to deliver them personally. Just tokens, but we hope they will remind the women of all they have learnt under our tutelage during their time at Newgate.’

‘Yes, of course. Lots to do. I understand,’ Captain Holland said, relieved. He turned to his first mate. ‘Mr Warren, get the prisoners below then see that Mrs Fry has everything she needs. Mrs Fry, would you care for Mr Downey to accompany you?’

‘Thank you, no. Though I would appreciate a moment or two of your time, Mr Downey, before we depart, if I may?’

James touched the brim of his hat. ‘Of course, madam, at your service.’ He had a few things he wanted to ask Mrs Fry himself.

Sitting on their bunks, having been herded below by a bossy Mr Warren, the women watched Mrs Fry as, with some difficulty, she negotiated the companion ladder down onto the prison deck. Being a plain Quaker, her skirts were by no means full, but even so her costume was considerably more substantial than anything they wore and she hesitated on each rung, placing her smartly booted feet heedfully and gripping the rope tightly.

When she reached the bottom, she adjusted her cape, which had slid slightly sideways, and clapped her gloved hands twice, demanding and receiving attention.

‘Good afternoon, ladies. I trust you have settled in?’

There was a chorus of ‘yes, ma’ams’ as she made her way down the aisle between the table and the bunks on one side of the deck, and back again up the other. Having done her ‘rounds’, she sat down. Above her a lamp swung gently, its smoky yellow light illuminating first one section of the cabin, then another. It also fell directly onto Mrs Fry’s head, the shadow cast by her bonnet relieved only by the bright gleam of her eyes; the only clear lines the contours of her jowls and strong nose.

‘You all know that some of you will not be returning to England,’ she said frankly and loudly, her voice carrying to all corners of the deck. There were a few stifled sobs at that. ‘But remember, the Lord goes with you, wherever you may travel, and wherever you may make your homes; He is your Saviour and is available to you every day upon this earth. But remember this, too: hard work, clean habits, honesty, moral fortitude and a contribution to society will encourage His spirit to work freely within you and to shine through you. A return to the poorly lit paths of yesterday, paths that have led you to this ship, which very soon is to take you far from your homes and loved ones, will surely see you once again lost in a spiritual wilderness and without hope. So, ladies, take these gifts we have for you, use them and enjoy them, and remember the lessons you have learnt.’

At that Mrs Fry’s companions opened the trunks that had been laboriously hefted down the ladder by Mr Warren and his men and began to pass every woman a drawstring bag of black cloth.

Sarah looked inside hers. It contained a bible, several additional religious tracts, a comb, a piece of soap, and a square of felted wool folded over two needles, blue thread, white thread, a length of inexpensive ribbon and six buttons. She felt slightly annoyed by
the gift, even though she could do with the comb and the soap. She would give the needlework things to Harrie, but had no intention whatsoever of opening the bible. She didn’t take charity, had never asked for it and never expected it. She was also irritated by her response, which she knew was a churlish and ungrateful one.

Rachel peered over her shoulder. ‘What did you get?’

Sarah showed her.

‘That was nice of them, wasn’t it?’ Rachel sniffed her soap. ‘What’s that funny smell?’

‘Palm oil,’ Friday told her. ‘It’s marine soap. Lathers in salt water.’

‘How do you know so much about being at sea?’ Harrie asked.

Sarah laughed. ‘Because she spends such a lot of time with sailors.’

‘They talk to me,’ Friday said. ‘It’s not all trousers down and skirts up, you know.’

‘Oh, I never thought that,’ Harrie replied quickly.

‘Yes, you did,’ Friday said, laughing herself now.

Sarah handed her sewing kit to Harrie. ‘You know I’m not much use with a needle. If you do the sewing, I’ll do the stealing.’

‘Sa
rah
,’ Harrie admonished.

‘Har
rie
,’ Sarah said back, grinning. She felt the weight of someone’s gaze on her and turned to see Mrs Fry watching her. She smiled politely. No, she definitely wouldn’t be opening her new bible.

The second trunk turned out to be crammed with pieces of cloth of various colours and lengths, with which, Mrs Fry informed them all, they could busy themselves during the voyage sewing clothes to wear when they arrived in New South Wales. She then asked them to join her in prayer and the singing of two or three spirit-raising psalms before she said goodbye to them all for the last time.

Sarah bowed her head, but she didn’t pray. At her side Rachel did, mumbling away like the child she almost was and belting out the words to the psalms but staying nicely on key, enjoying
herself. Harrie had a pretty singing voice, too. Friday didn’t, and she sang — as she did everything — loudly. After a verse or two more, Friday’s vocal efforts deteriorated even further. Sarah risked a quick glance at her; Friday stared resolutely ahead, refusing to meet her eye. Then came a wink so fleeting it almost wasn’t there. The volume of Friday’s voice increased a decibel or two and slipped off another half-key. Rachel began to giggle.

Mrs Fry’s brows descended until they almost met in the middle, but she refrained — deliberately, Sarah suspected — from looking up from her psalm book. At the psalm’s conclusion, Mrs Fry thankfully decided that two would suffice.

James waited politely until the waterman had struck out for the quay, then turned on his heel and returned to his cabin.

Mrs Fry had confirmed in general terms the impressions he’d already gained from his initial appraisal of his charges. The gaols only provided prisoners’ basic details, such as place of birth, age, trade and marital status — and even the veracity of those plain facts couldn’t always be relied upon — and a simple physical description of each prisoner, plus their crime, place of trial and sentence, so he appreciated any further knowledge he might glean from other sources. He would know his charges all too well by the time they landed at Sydney Cove, but it helped to learn as much as possible as
early
as possible.

He had first met Elizabeth Fry five years earlier, when he began superintending the ships transporting both female and male convicts. She had always been the person with whom to converse regarding the women, because of her frequent contact with them at Newgate. Not that they all came from Newgate — some were brought south from regional gaols and at least two ships per year sailed from Dublin — but many did.

She was a formidable woman, Elizabeth Fry, and without doubt an admirable one, though James was aware she had at times attracted
criticism for wielding a political influence unbecoming to the fairer sex and for allegedly neglecting her duties as a wife and a mother. James didn’t know whether her banker husband and seven children suffered from her dedication to charitable work or not, but he admired what she set out to achieve. She was a philanthropist and an evangelist and over the past twenty years had, among other things, introduced schooling to Newgate Gaol, scripture lessons, sewing and knitting, female matrons rather than predatory male gaolers, and these last-minute farewell gestures to transportees. She had also attempted to ban gaming, swearing, begging, drinking and anything that even hinted at immorality, issuing edicts that had not, as far as James could deduce by the time he encountered the prisoners, translated particularly effectively into reality. The schools, too, came and went, so did the handcrafts, though the matrons had remained a fixture.

Other theories about prison reform were finding favour now and these days Mrs Fry was facing troubles of her own. Her once wealthy husband had been declared bankrupt in 1828 and it was rumoured that the Society of Friends could no longer summon the charity to welcome the family. But her influence as an activist and a prison reformer had extended beyond the bounds of England, and she had published a book only two years earlier setting forth her opinions on the government of female prisoners, based on her experiences, so even if her social status had slipped somewhat in Quaker circles, she continued to be celebrated for her efforts, both in England and on the European continent. She would not be an easy woman to dislodge from the path she believed she had been chosen to follow.

He didn’t consider himself to be a personal friend of Elizabeth Fry’s, more of a colleague, but he had always found her forthcoming when it came to matters regarding the female convicts’ welfare, which went some small way towards mitigating his herculean task.

This afternoon, for example, she’d had no hesitation in quite frankly pointing out which of his new charges might be expected
to give trouble and which, in her opinion, could be helpful to him in various roles.

He unlocked the drawer in his desk and withdrew his copy of the ship’s muster list, together with a foolscap journal. A gift from his wife Emily, it was bound in the new-fashioned cloth — fittingly, she had chosen a navy-blue colour — and stamped with his name in gold leaf. Initially he’d been quite reluctant to sully its pristine, cream pages with descriptions of boils and catarrh and diarrhoea, but he knew Emily meant him to use it in his work, and once he’d filled the first few pages with his admittedly not very legible handwriting, the spell had been broken.

He reached into the drawer again, retrieved his bottle of Indian ink, a steel nib and the carved bone nib holder that had also been a gift from Emily, and lined them up on his desk. Experience had proven that Mrs Fry was a sound judge of character, so when she said that Liz Parker and her coterie were likely to cause the most trouble aboard ship, having already succeeded in ruling the roost in the women’s wing at Newgate, then they probably were. He opened the ink bottle, dipped his pen and wrote ‘Liz Parker’ on a fresh page. He wasn’t surprised; the woman certainly looked the part. There was a particularly unattractive toby jug he’d recently seen depicting a character named ‘Drunken Sal’: a hefty, bulldog-faced woman sitting with her knees apart, a glass presumably of gin in her hand, her arm resting on her ample belly. James wondered only half in jest if the Parker woman had sat for Davenport, the makers.