by Jody Hedlund
During her visits to the dispensary, Dr. Bates had talked about how much God loved her, about the joy and peace and hope He offered. But why would a loving God allow so much suffering? Why would He turn His back on the pain and trouble that afflicted Twiggy and Ash, Patience, and so many others? With all the beauty in the world, why couldn’t God spread it out and make it available to everyone rather than just a few privileged folks?
Mercy’s questions had swelled to hurting the farther she’d traveled from London. It was as if she’d been stuck her entire life in a tiny overcrowded corner that had defined her existence, ignorant of the spacious world that existed beyond her. If only she’d thought to turn around sooner and see what she was missing.
But even as she wished she’d ventured beyond London sooner, she knew the turning around wasn’t easy, not for poor women like her. If not for the help of the Columbia Mission Society, she wouldn’t have been able to afford a train ticket out of the city. Even if she’d decided to walk to the countryside, parishes were swift to punish beggars, vagrants, trespassers, and anyone who didn’t belong.
“How am I gonna last months at sea,” Sarah asked miserably, “when I can hardly make it an hour?”
“You’ll get used to it,” Mercy assured, praying she was right.
Sarah started to speak again, but then hung her head over the side of the tender and released the contents of the morning meal they’d eaten at the public house, a meal they’d ravenously devoured: hot fresh bread, cooked eggs, thick slices of bacon and sausage, and coffee—real coffee. Mercy’d never had anything so filling or tasty before in her life and guessed the others hadn’t either.
And now Sarah was losing the sustenance she so badly needed.
For the remainder of the row to the steamer, Mercy gently rubbed Sarah’s back, held her hair out of the way when she vomited again, and caressed the girl’s cheek.
Barely older than fifteen, Sarah and some of the other youngest women in their group had been gathered out of St. Margaret’s Home, which Mercy learned was an orphanage. The girls had informed her they were getting too old to stay at the orphanage and would have soon been cast out to make room for younger children who needed the help more. This voyage had spared them from having to live on the streets.
When the tender pulled alongside the ship, Mercy noticed a haggardness about the steam vessel, as if she’d been pushed too hard for too long in her young life. The fresh coat of paint couldn’t disguise the dents and scratches, and coal soot had blackened much of the ship’s hull.
As the gangplank was lowered and they boarded the main deck, Mercy kept a tight hold on Sarah, gathering the other orphans around her as well.
“Ladies, your attention, please.” A tall woman, who was as thin and flat as an iron bedstead, stood several feet away. She wasn’t old, but the downturned lines at the corners of her mouth and prominent veins in her temples indicated that she hadn’t necessarily had an easy life.
“My name is Mrs. Robb,” she said firmly. “I’m to be one of your chaperones during your voyage on the Tynemouth.”
Mercy should have known the Columbia Mission Society wouldn’t allow sixty women to travel unsupervised. With already half their number having boarded, she supposed someone would need to provide instruction and guidance if Mrs. Dotta and Miss Rye were staying behind to organize the next shipment of women.
“Gather your belongings and follow me.” Mrs. Robb started moving toward a passageway.
“Belongings?” scoffed Ann, another of the orphan girls. “’Xactly who does she think we are? Her Royal Majesties?”
Some of the others tittered. Yet all of them followed along the same as Mercy, empty-handed, with only the clothes they wore to accompany them into their new lives.
Mercy was surprised when they passed by a cow in a makeshift stall on the deck, as well as several pigs and chickens in crates. Barefoot sailors mending sails and scrubbing the deck paused in their work to gawk at the women. But Mrs. Robb hurried them along, giving them no time to explore or interact.
“Here you are.” Mrs. Robb finally stopped next to the ship’s funnel and motioned to a row of cabins directly behind it. “Count yourselves very blessed that you will have separate living quarters for the duration of this trip, meaning you won’t have to reside in steerage along with the other poor passengers. The Columbia Mission Society has raised enough money to pay for you to stay in cabins of your own.”
Mercy could only guess what the conditions of steerage were like—probably dark, cramped, and dismal, similar to what they were already accustomed to back in the slums. Although the ache in her heart hadn’t gone away since saying good-bye to Patience and everyone else, she was beginning to understand more and more the enormity of the opportunity she’d been given.
“There will be six of you bunking together,” Mrs. Robb added. “Once you choose your stateroom, I’ll expect you to remain there for the duration of the voyage.”
The women began to disperse. Mercy had led Sarah and the other orphans to the closest cabin when Mrs. Robb called out sharply, “Ladies, you will wait to pick your rooms until after I’m finished with my instructions.”
She stood silently until all the women had gathered again in front of her. “It is important for you to follow the rules set down by the Columbia Mission Society for the length of our trip. We must have orderliness on such a voyage and be above reproach if we hope to continue the good work of the Society in the future.”
Mercy stood straighter. Was the voyage of the Robert Lowe dependent upon how well her shipload of women behaved? If so, Mercy would be the model passenger, that she would.
“The most important rule for this voyage,” Mrs. Robb continued, “is that you are forbidden to fraternize with the other passengers, especially the men.”
At the general murmurings of discontent, Mrs. Robb pursed her lips and waited.
Mercy didn’t mind the rule. She had no desire to talk to any men now or in the future. She didn’t figure there was a reason to form relationships or friendships with any men, not when she had no intention of getting married. As far as she’d ever been able to tell, marriage brought a whole lot of trouble, including unfaithfulness and more babies.
There were too many desperate women who married the first man who showed them any attention, thinking marriage would rescue them and perhaps finally give them a mite of stability and happiness.
Many of Mercy’s friends had fallen prey to such thinking. One by one they’d paired off and married men in the neighborhood. But instead of being happier, her friends had ended up with more heartache, especially when the babes came along only to die of hunger or disease.
The truth was, Mercy hadn’t witnessed many successful or happy marriages in her tiny dark corner of the world. As a result, marriage didn’t appeal to her any more than the thought of having children.
But not everyone was committed to singleness the way she was. She guessed most of the women who’d boarded the Tynemouth hoped to find good husbands someday.
Mrs. Robb swept her gaze over the women. “Once we reach the colonies, I’m told there are at least a thousand young men earnestly awaiting your arrival. The minute you step off the ship, you will each have a host of admirers making you offers of marriage.”
The comment brought a round of giggles and laughter from the women, save Mercy, who recoiled at the prospect and prayed that Mrs. Robb was exaggerating.
The tall woman’s face, however, was as solemn as a gravedigger’s. “I hope you can see the serious nature of maintaining your reputations and virtue during our long weeks of traveling. You wouldn’t want any hint of impropriety to prevent you from making a good match upon your arrival. Thus you must take very seriously the rule not to fraternize with other passengers. Do you understand?”
The women chattered among themselves with a barely restrained excitement Mercy didn’t share.
“I asked, do you understand?” Mrs. Robb spoke sharply above the commotion.
Mercy was quick to join the others in voicing her affirmation. Mrs. Robb would soon find she had nothing to worry about with Mercy Wilkins. Nothing at all.
nine
Sarah’s sick again,” Ann whispered when Mercy stepped into their cabin, which had only enough standing room to allow a few of them at a time to be out of their berths.
Ann peered at Mercy from the bed above Sarah’s. Flo and Minnie shared the bunk on the far wall, while Kip had taken the top bed above Mercy.
The smell of vomit permeated the cabin. Even though Mercy had already emptied the floral china washbasin several times over the ship’s railing, the stench still hung heavily in the air.
Mercy shook the rain from her skirt and hair before bending over Sarah, who was curled into a ball on her straw-filled mattress in the narrow bunk.
Sarah had seemed fine yesterday after they’d boarded the ship. She’d been as excited as the rest of the girls to pick their room. Despite its being plain and windowless, without any furnishings except for the wooden bunks, the washbasin and a matching pitcher, they’d each exclaimed over the room and had taken turns lounging on the different beds.
At some point during the night, rain began pelting the ship, and the wind howled as the storm became more intense. Soon large waves were buffeting the ship, tilting it to and fro like a drunkard stumbling out of a tavern. It wasn’t long afterward that Sarah woke up moaning, dizzy with nausea.
Mercy had tended the girl through the rest of the night, until Sarah had finally fallen asleep at the first light of dawn. Mercy had used the opportunity to leave the cabin and explore the deck. At the early hour it had been deserted, and she relished a few moments of privacy, catching a breath of fresh air under an overhang while letting the pitcher from their cabin fill with rainwater. It seemed the worst of the storm was over.
“Bless your sweet face,” Mercy said, brushing Sarah’s cheek with the back of her hand. “A cool drink should help, that it will.” She poured some of the rainwater into a tin cup, then held Sarah up and brought the cup to her lips. “Come now, dear heart.”
Just as soon as Sarah swallowed the water, it came back up.
The other girls hung over the edges of their beds, watching. Ann slipped down and dropped to her knees next to Mercy. “What can I do to help?”
Mercy patted Ann’s arm. In the short time with the girls, Mercy had come to see that Ann was their leader. Her features were dainty, and she wore her dark hair plaited into two long braids, giving her a childlike appearance. Like many of the waifs, she’d had to grow up much too soon and had an inner strength and hard edge that lent a maturity beyond her years.
“You want me to fetch the doctor?” Ann asked.
The light peeking in from under the door revealed Sarah’s face. It was as sunken and shriveled as Clara’s had been on the day she’d died at the Shoreditch Dispensary. Clara’s mother had waited too long in seeking help for the child. Mercy wouldn’t repeat the same mistake with Sarah. During her time spent walking the deck earlier, she’d passed a door marked with a medical symbol not far from her cabin and guessed it was the ship’s surgeon’s quarters.
Though the hour was early, surely the doctor would be awake and wouldn’t mind helping Sarah.
“I can get anything you need,” Ann added, a note of pride in her tone. “You just tell me what, and I’ll find it. I’ve never once got caught.”
Mercy was saddened to think how so many homeless children resorted to stealing to survive. Even more disturbing was that pilfering often became second nature to them. She shook her head. “We can’t be starting this voyage by doing wrong. We gotta do the honest and right thing, even if it’s hard.”
“Have it your way,” Ann said as she climbed back onto her bed.
Mercy wanted to say more but bit back a reply. She had weeks ahead to help these young women learn about doing right, the same way Patience had always helped her. There was no sense in forcing the matter now.
Instead, she assisted Sarah off the bunk, slipped an arm around the girl, and led her out of the stateroom and down the deck. The rain had tapered to a mist, but the wind was still swirling in gusts. With the ship’s rocking and Sarah’s weakness, Mercy had to half carry the girl.
“Doctor,” she called after reaching the door marked with the medical symbol. She knocked lightly. “I’ve got a very sick girl here.”
The wind ripped away her words and tossed them out to sea. She waited a moment longer, then pressed her ear to the door. Hearing nothing, she knocked again, louder this time.
When the door swung open suddenly, she didn’t bother greeting the doctor, not sparing him even a glance. Instead, she stumbled into the room with Sarah, her arm wrapped tightly around the girl’s waist. Spotting the bed—which from the tangle of covers appeared as if it’d been recently occupied—she led Sarah there and gently lowered her, helping to lift her feet until she was curled up once again.
Behind her, the doctor seemed to be fumbling at something. A moment later a lantern flickered to life and allowed Mercy to see Sarah’s face clearly. The girl’s eyes were glassy, her skin pale, her lips dry and cracked.
“Please, Doctor,” Mercy said, turning around, “could you—?”
Her words stalled. Standing only a few paces away, a man was in the process of hanging the lantern on a metal wall hook. His back was facing her—his very naked back.
For an eternal second, Mercy couldn’t look away. Thickly corded muscles flexed with every movement he made. Not wearing suspenders, his trousers sagged low enough to reveal a narrow but well-defined waist. From the messy locks of dark hair, broad shoulders, and tanned arms, she could see he was much younger than she’d anticipated. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d expected from a ship’s doctor, but certainly not this.
After making quick work of adjusting the lantern’s flame, brightening the room, he spun to face her.
Before he could catch her ogling, she dropped her sights to the floor, to his bare feet showing beneath the hem of his trousers. In her haste she’d given the doctor no time to make himself presentable before opening the door.
Not that she was naïve about the human body. In the close confines of her family’s living quarters, she’d seen all manner of nakedness. Around her neighborhood and other parts of the slums, she’d happened upon people in varying states of undress and indecency.
She ought not to be surprised or embarrassed now. Even so, there was something about this man’s sculpted physique that made her uncomfortable in a strange way.
“I beg your pardon, Doctor. I didn’t know . . . didn’t realize—”
“It is I who must apologize, madam,” he interrupted. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed him hastily reaching for a shirt from a peg on the back of the now-closed door.
“It’s just that I was hoping you could help this sweet little lamb.”
In the midst of shoving an arm into his shirtsleeve, he halted. Mercy could sense him studying her. She dared to peek at him again, this time forcing her attention away from his half-clad torso to his face.
Something about him seemed familiar. His hair was a rich dark brown, his eyes equally dark. The shadow of whiskers couldn’t hide the handsome face beneath—the long cheekbones tapering into a strong jaw and well-defined chin.
One of his brows quirked. “Have I met you before?”
She started to shake her head, but then stopped abruptly at the memory of his tired face the day she’d brought Clara to the dispensary. He was the doctor who’d tried to help the girl.
And she’d tried to pay him by offering her boots. At the memory of his recoiling in pity, Mercy dropped her attention to the floor again. He’d probably thought she was pathetic, perhaps believed she was a prostitute. After all, he’d assumed Clara was her daughter.
Maybe if she didn’t remind him of their meeting, he wouldn’t recognize her, especially now that she was clean and wearing new garments.
“Ah, yes, now I remember,” he said,
tugging at his shirt and stuffing his arm into the other sleeve. “You brought the little girl with cholera infantum to the Shoreditch Dispensary.”
Her heart sank. So much for remaining anonymous. “Aye, sir. ’Twas me.”
“What is your name again?” He snapped his suspenders in place over his shirt.
“Mercy Wilkins, sir.” She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. She didn’t know why she should be so embarrassed, why it should matter what this doctor believed about her. He was nothing to her.
Except she’d likely see him often over the next few months of their voyage, and she didn’t want him to think ill of her.
“I’m Dr. Colville,” he said as he closed the distance between them. “Who have you brought to me this time, Miss Wilkins?”
The sound of her name spoken so formally and respectfully took her by surprise. Poor women like her were rarely given the courtesy of a title.
He brushed past her and lowered himself on one knee before Sarah.
“This is Sarah, sir.” She knelt next to him. “She’s been mighty sick all the night long. Would that she and the sea could become friends, but alas, they don’t seem to be getting along right yet.”
Dr. Colville glanced at Mercy. Although he didn’t smile, humor crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Did he find her amusing? Maybe he thought she was a simpleton. Before Mercy could decide whether or not to be offended, Sarah moaned.
“Hello, Sarah.” The doctor felt the young woman’s forehead and then the pulse in her neck. “I hear you’re not making friends with the sea. Well, not to worry. You aren’t the first to find the sea a foe, nor will you be the last.”
Sarah finally opened her eyes. Through her haze she seemed to be studying Dr. Colville’s face.
“I’m afraid that those who find a foe in the sea can rarely mend the broken relationship.” He offered Mercy the hint of a smile, his eyes warm and devoid of mockery. She could almost believe he was genuine and that he meant her no offense.
