by Jody Hedlund
Patience reached for Mercy’s hand, and together they wound through the infirmary until Patience closed the door behind them and they stood in the equally cold hallway with only the tiny flicker of the flame from the candle Patience held. It illuminated the dark stairwell and the trails of mold growing on the wall.
“Now remember,” Mercy said as she already had at least a dozen times, “you have to be at the Columbia Mission Society building the first week of July for your interview.”
“How will I know when it’s July?” Patience asked.
“You must mark off the days somehow.”
“I’ll try.”
“Mrs. Dotta and Miss Rye will be expecting you, that they will. They have Dr. Bates’s letter and know right well who you are and where you’re at. They’ll be saving a spot for you on the Robert Lowe.”
Patience started down the steps, leading the way with the stub of candle shoved into the top of a bottle. Mercy wanted to say a hundred more things but couldn’t formulate the words. Instead the slap of their footsteps echoed too loudly in the corridors until they reached the front of the workhouse.
As Mercy stepped outside onto the front stoop, she had the sudden urge to drag Patience along with her. Surely she could sneak Patience aboard the ship. What was one more frail woman among so many passengers?
But even as Mercy contemplated how to force Patience to come with, her sister started to cough again, this time so violently she would have dropped the candle and set herself afire if Mercy hadn’t rescued it and placed it on the brick wall bordering the stoop.
When Patience finally stopped coughing, Mercy’s heart thudded with the awful premonition that this was it, that she’d never see her sister again. An ache formed in Mercy’s chest and swelled until it felt nigh unto bursting.
For a long moment she could only stare at her sister, the young woman who’d raised her, who’d tended so lovingly to her every need, who’d ultimately sacrificed everything for her. Mercy’s eyes suddenly stung with the need to cry and scream her protest at how unfair life was.
“I want you to remember that when we’re troubled on every side,” Patience said, her voice wavering, “we can’t get caught up in seeing the problems from our view. God’s so much bigger and has things worked out in His ways—ways we can’t begin to understand.”
Mercy nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in her throat. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—cry. She had to stay strong.
Patience lifted her blackened and blistered fingers and caressed Mercy’s face. Her eyes filled with tears. “You’re gonna be just fine and have a good new life.”
“And you’ll join me right soon.”
Patience touched Mercy’s face again, tracing it as though memorizing every line.
“Promise me you’ll come,” Mercy insisted. “Vow it.”
“I told you I’d try and I will.” Patience offered a trembling smile.
Mercy attempted to swallow but couldn’t.
“You best go on now.” Patience swiped at her cheeks. “I don’t like you wandering about in the dark.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Yes, you will be.” And with that, Patience grabbed Mercy into a fierce hug. “You know I’ll always love you.”
Mercy squeezed her sister in return, letting Patience’s love bathe her for a final time. Patience released her and spun but not before Mercy saw the tears streaming down her sister’s cheeks.
“I love you too.” Mercy’s voice broke and sobs pressed for release.
Then Patience stepped inside, closed the door, and was gone, leaving Mercy to pray this parting wouldn’t be their last.
seven
Joseph held on to the small open drawer and steadied himself against the familiar sway of the ship. The bottles inside rattled, and he shifted them closer to make room for the remainder of the medicines he’d brought along for the ailments sailors or passengers might encounter during the voyage.
He’d boarded the Tynemouth too late the previous evening to unpack. Now by the light of day, he was able to explore his accommodations. To be sure, the room allotted for the sick bay wasn’t big, but it was more sizable than what he’d been given on other voyages.
Fortunately he had a porthole, although it was small and surrounded by rust. Still, it allowed for some natural lighting, enough to aid him during surgeries and suturing. A bunk bed had been affixed to one wall, providing a place in which to tend the sick. Against the opposite wall stood a counter containing the drawers where he was storing his medicine. A set of shelves above the counter gave him space for additional supplies and linens.
A writing table and chair had been squeezed into another nook. The screws holding the table in place appeared new. The captain had likely arranged for the furniture to be put into this cabin as a special courtesy. He would have to thank Captain Hellyer for so fine a room. With limited space on board the ship, he was grateful for the generosity. He’d yet to speak with the captain but guessed he would have plenty of time over the next few days before they embarked on their voyage.
He’d already learned from acquaintances in London that Captain Hellyer had been trained in the Royal Navy as an officer, that during the past years without any wars to fight he’d been in the Royal Navy Reserves. Though the Tynemouth was his first merchant command, Joseph expected the captain would have no trouble making the adjustment.
Hearing a knock, Joseph quickly smoothed back his hair, straightened his cuffs, and moved to open the door. He half expected to see the captain and instead discovered a short man peering up at him, a mixture of awe and trepidation in his severe expression.
He wore a black suit with a high starched white collar that almost seemed to strangle him. He swallowed, struggling to get his Adam’s apple past the collar, then bowed at the waist.
“Lord Colville” came the man’s muffled voice from his bent position. “I am most delighted to make your esteemed acquaintance.”
The man held his bow for so long, Joseph began to wonder if he should pry him up. Finally he cleared his throat. “I’m pleased to meet you as well . . .”
“Reverend William Richard Scott.” The man popped up so quickly, Joseph was taken aback. “Mr. Scott of St. Mary Magdalene Church in Harlow?” The reverend watched Joseph expectantly. “One of my patrons is the esteemed Lady Carlyle.” Again the reverend waited.
Joseph had known Lady Carlyle his whole life, but that didn’t mean he knew everyone she decided to help.
“She has likely spoken of me or at the very least of my sermons, as I’m told my eloquence is unmatched.”
“I’m sorry to say she has not mentioned you, Mr. Scott.” Joseph glanced past the man to the second- and third-class staterooms that were being readied by the ship’s officers going in and out of the rooms with luggage and linens. While the large majority of passengers, particularly poor immigrants, would reside in steerage, there were a good number of cabins reserved for passengers who could pay a higher fee.
Some of the third-class cabins stretched out beyond the sick bay, just behind the ship’s funnel. Farther aft, behind the mizzenmast, ran another row of slightly larger second-class rooms.
“I do hope you’ll be able to attend services, Lord Colville, and hear for yourself my soliloquies. I have no doubt you will find yourself quite pleased with them, the same as Lady Carlyle, especially since I often read and expound upon Bishop Law’s A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life, as well as Bishop Butler’s Sermons. I’m sure you will find my lectures enlightening.”
“I’m sure,” Joseph said politely, even as his attention strayed to the ship’s railing and to Dart Harbor, where a hundred or more ships, fishing boats, coaling hulks, and even naval training vessels were moored along with the Tynemouth.
The port town of Dartmouth and Bayards Cove spread out along the harbor. Rows of tightly packed homes looked as if they were stacked on top of one another like stair steps up the cliff, with the ancient stone Bearscore Castle standing at the bas
e as a stout sentinel.
The harbor was a murky brown-gray due to the recent spring rains clouding the water. Thankfully the waves were gentle, and the sunshine of the May afternoon held a hint of summer.
“I and my family will be occupying one of the second-class cabins on the other end of the deck.” The reverend’s expression remained grave, his voice almost monotone. “I do hope to have the pleasure of introducing you to my wife and two daughters, Lord Colville. I’m told my daughters are quite fetching, intelligent, and accomplished at sewing, embroidery, drawing, painting, and the like.”
“I will look forward to meeting them,” Joseph said. “However, as the ship’s only surgeon and without an assistant, I’m afraid I won’t have much time for leisure.”
“I understand completely, my lord.” Mr. Scott ducked his head in deference. “I too will likely find myself taxed beyond endurance in shepherding the flock the Lord has given me for this voyage.”
Joseph nodded and stepped back into his room, intending to bid the reverend farewell, but the man shuffled forward until he stood stiffly in the doorway, blocking Joseph’s retreat.
“I had hoped to sail to Sandwich Islands with the illustrious Reverend Thomas Nettleship Staley, the newly consecrated Bishop of Honolulu. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
Joseph shook his head.
“I was honored to be asked to serve with him in an effort to convert the natives and spread the gospel among the heathen aboriginals. However, Miss Angela Georgina Burdett Coutts—have you met the delightful Miss Coutts?”
As heiress to the Coutts Bank’s millions, every member of London’s aristocracy knew of Angela Coutts. “Indeed, I have a time or two—”
“She’s quite the devoted philanthropist and social reformer, is she not? Her good deeds and Christian charity along with Charles Dickens inspire us all. I was honored when she singled me out as the champion of her cause.”
“Which cause is that, Mr. Scott?” Joseph asked, even as he scrambled to find a way to excuse himself from the reverend’s company.
“I am to chaperone and guide the young single women being sponsored by the Columbia Mission Society. I’ve been tasked with the important job of keeping them away from the temptations of evil, so that when they arrive to Vancouver Island and unite with the men anxiously awaiting their appearance, the women can enter the sacrament of holy matrimony as pure brides.”
“So the rumors about the Tynemouth being a bride ship are true?” Joseph wasn’t surprised by the news, thanks to Aunt Pen’s warning, and yet irritation niggled him nonetheless. Captain Hellyer should have told him more about the nature of the Tynemouth’s mission.
Mr. Scott pulled himself up and lifted his chin above his stiff collar as though preparing to launch into a sermon. “I know what you are thinking, Lord Colville—of past such endeavors made by our great country. But let me put your anxieties to rest. Maria Rye, the founder of the London Middle-Class Emigration Society, has screened and chosen the women herself.”
“The women are not from the prisons, then?”
“Oh no, my lord. I’m told the group is comprised mostly of distressed middle-class gentlewomen seeking governess positions until suitable husbands are found for them.”
“I see.”
“Of course, the Columbia Mission Society, under the influence of our dear Miss Angela Burdett Coutts, insisted that Miss Rye also make an effort to rescue young women from the workhouses and orphanages. And she was quite right to insist such a thing, if I may say so. Quite right as usual. Such souls deserve saving, don’t you agree?”
Joseph started to respond, but Mr. Scott was like a ship with full sail and couldn’t be stopped.
“Needless to say, Miss Rye made her selections of such lost souls very rigorously, so that only the most deserving among the lower class were chosen. After all, there is a need for domestics in Victoria. The poor, friendless girls will be glad to have the work—that is, until they’re able to enter into matrimony, which I’m assured will be soon after landing, as the laborers in the colony are most eagerly awaiting the arrival of this first ship.”
“So there are to be other bride ships?”
“If we have any hope of keeping the colony civilized, then we must send more women.” Mr. Scott glanced over his shoulder as if gauging who might be listening to their conversation. He then leaned in closer to Joseph and lowered his voice. “My fellow missionaries who reside on Vancouver Island and in British Columbia report that the miners are positively heathen and that it is the fault of the native women who entice them into cohabitation. They need rescuing from their vices, and the influence of virtuous, servile, and good Christian women will be just what the men need to save them for God and country alike.”
Joseph had seen enough in his voyages to dispute Mr. Scott’s assumption that the native women were at fault for their enticing. From what Joseph had seen in other British colonies, the immigrant men were largely to blame for seeking out and often taking advantage of foreign women. Joseph had always been appalled at the arrogant view so many took regarding the natives and the abuses they piled upon them—as if they were inferior, somehow less human.
As Joseph had long ago thrown away convention, he’d since allowed himself the freedom to speak his mind, even when his ideas and opinions were less than popular.
“If the miners are full of vice,” Joseph said, “then perhaps they are the ones enticing the natives and not the other way around.”
For the first time since making his introduction, the reverend opened his mouth and nothing came out.
“Now, please excuse me, Mr. Scott.” Joseph began closing the door, leaving Mr. Scott no choice but to stumble backward out of the way. “I really must resume my unpacking. I bid you good day.”
eight
On the bench in the tender, Mercy wrapped her arm around Sarah, one of the orphans she’d befriended during the train ride from London to Dartmouth. With each dip of the oars, the waves slapped hard as though to keep the small boat from reaching her destination, the steamship anchored ahead.
Sarah shuddered. “I’m gonna be sick real soon.”
“We’re almost there, sweet lamb,” Mercy murmured. “Take a deep breath of air. That’ll help, to be sure.”
Several of the others attempted to do as Mercy instructed, breathing in gulps of salty air to stave off the rush of seasickness. Their faces were as chalky as the limestone cliffs they’d left behind on the shore. And the pallor only highlighted the gauntness in each face.
The Columbia Mission Society had attempted to help the young women clean up and wash away all traces of grime before the voyage, giving them each a twopence to take baths and wash their hair at a public bathhouse near the Society’s building.
Although the dirt had been washed from their bodies, they hadn’t been able to wash away the sickly hollowness that came from living and breathing in the filth of their slum neighborhoods.
Mercy had only been to a bathhouse once before in her life, and the experience of immersing her entire body in a tub of water—even if it had been lukewarm and murky after several women had gone before her—had been a luxury.
She still marveled as well at the fine garments Mrs. Dotta had provided for her, the finest she’d ever owned or worn. The dark blue cotton skirt was serviceable and somewhat tattered along the hem but was thick, sturdy, and best of all it had no stains. The blouse was the same color of blue as the skirt and buttoned up the front.
Mercy ran a hand over one of the long sleeves, relishing the soft, almost silky texture. She even marveled at the freshness of her chemise, as well as the drawers. While a bit more frayed than her outerwear, they were whiter and cleaner than anything she’d ever worn.
“Are we almost there yet?” Sarah asked, burying her face into Mercy’s arm.
“Just a mite longer.” Mercy peered ahead at the ship that didn’t seem to be drawing any closer. An elegant figurehead graced the long bowsprit, and a funnel rose from the top dec
k into the air alongside several masts.
One of the men rowing the tender had explained that the ship had a large screw propeller fueled by steam, which came from coal engines deep in the belly of the ship. He’d said there were times when the ship needed the propeller and steam engine to move her along, and other times when the ship used her sails for power.
Whatever the case, Mercy stared at the vessel that was to be their home for the next three or four months. The train car they’d ridden in yesterday had been strange enough, the speed unsettling, the noise and commotion and excitement overwhelming. But it hadn’t prepared her for the magnitude of the ship or the reality that came with seeing it—namely that she was leaving England’s shores, perhaps never to return, and she was sailing halfway around the world to a strange place where she wouldn’t know anyone or anything.
Her sights strayed past the dozen or more women in the tender to the land she was leaving behind. She drank in the vibrant green of the grass and woods decorating the hills overlooking the town, the riot of white, yellow, and purple flowers growing in clusters, and the vast blue sky that went on forever and ever.
The scenery was so unlike anything she’d ever witnessed. She could go on staring at it without ever tiring of the view, much like yesterday when she’d gazed out the window the entire train ride without losing interest. The passing countryside, small towns, sprawling farms, and lush vegetation had awakened a longing within her—a longing to dig her bare toes into the grass, to breathe in the clear air, to stroll among the tall trees.
With so much land spreading out as far as the eye could see, why were the masses of poor people crammed into such small rooms in narrow houses, built so close together that a person could hardly glimpse the sky above them? With the rich resources she’d witnessed, why were hordes of people hungry and jobless and without hope?
