Dangerous Women

by Hope Adams

  All is done in a great hurry. No one examines us. No one asks us any questions. We’re bundled out of the jail and into a cart, like livestock.

  I fear the whole world can hear the thudding of my heart. On the way to the dock, I close my eyes and try to escape the sound but there it is: Doom, it says, with every beat. Doom, doom. I think of the woman I’ve left behind. If they find her before the Rajah sails, what’ll she tell them? Will they believe she’s who she says she is, or dismiss her babblings as a lie, uttered by a person who can’t tell horses from Wednesdays? I tell myself, Don’t think of her. Think of yourself. Every effort must be directed to your own survival.

  We’re crowded together on the benches of this cart. No one’s looking at me, which I’m glad of, but, still, I let my hair fall over my face and pretend to be deeply distressed. No one speaks to me. The other women are weeping, comforting their friends or sighing. A few have covered their eyes. Some gaze at their feet. Others wring their hands. As we trundle through the streets, rattling past men and women going about their business, I half expect someone to point at me, to recognize me, to shout my real name. I slide down on the bench, staring at my feet, willing us to go faster. Oh, how I long to board the Rajah! There, surely, among so many, I can become a new person. I repeat the name of the woman I’ve tied up and hidden. It has to come to my lips naturally, instantly, whenever I’m asked to give it. At every turn of the cart’s wheels, I expect someone to come running after us. Surely they’d have found her by now, and woken to the truth. But no one’s following us.

  “There’s the Rajah, ladies,” says the man driving the cart. “Your new home, my lovelies, and you’re more than welcome to her. A fine sight, I’m sure you’ll agree. You’re only a short boat ride away from her now.”

  The Rajah. I gaze at her furled white sails, the high masts and the nets of rigging, and my heart leaps at her beauty. A brisk wind whips at the masts and the sky is clear blue, with white cloud streaked across it. I think we’ll be kept belowdecks, for the most part. We’re still prisoners. It’ll be dark down there. The mattresses won’t be much better than those at Millbank. I don’t care. Soon the sails will unfurl and fill with the breath of the wind, and everything on the vessel will be bent on moving us away from what we’ve done. The Rajah will skim over the water, like a huge bird, carrying me with her.

  When we reach our small boat, someone is already there, sitting near the bow. A lady. She’s so different from the rest of us that she might be from quite another world. She’s small and young, with a clear complexion and an upright carriage. Her hands are hidden by fingerless gloves made of lace, but I’d lay money they’ve not seen rough work. She wears a dark green dress and a maroon knitted shawl. I wonder who she might be, but only for a few moments. Then I turn all my efforts to getting into the boat without falling into the water and making a show of myself. Some of the other women are shrieking in terror, unused to the motion of the tiny vessel on the river. I’m silent. I’m happy. Soon. I’ll soon be there, on the Rajah, sailing as far away from London as it’s possible to be.

  When we come aboard the Rajah for the first time, there’s a man writing down every name. The one I give sounds strange in my mouth as I speak it aloud. I’ve put away my own name, removed it as if it were no more than a cheap paste brooch.

  The gentleman taking our names is sitting at a table, placed on the deck. He’s got a big ledger open in front of him, with an inkwell and a pen. He’s noting our previous occupations and details of our crimes: burglary, forgery, stealing food. Receiving stolen goods. Picking pockets. I turn cold, then hot, and I can feel my cheeks flushing. Will I be able to speak my new name without hesitation? I say it. I say it perfectly. And my crime: theft. But what can I say for my previous occupation? My tongue feels swollen in my mouth.

  “Thank you,” says the man, once he’s written it down. “What was your employment before you were sent to Millbank?”

  The seconds that pass before I answer seem to go on forever. Many thoughts fly through my mind at once. What shall I say? I can’t tell the truth. “I worked for a milliner,” I answer. The lie comes to me from nowhere, and I see him write “milliner” next to my name. Why did I say that? It’s true I used to enjoy trimming my bonnets, in the days when my life was different, but from that to being a milliner is a long step. Never mind, I tell myself. No one’ll care what I tell him. Lying won’t matter.

  “Thank you,” the man says again, and then, “Next, please.”

  I hurry to catch up with the woman who was in front of me in the queue and follow her. I want nothing more than to go below and hide in the dark. Someone catches my arm as I pass and pulls me to him, grabbing my breast and squeezing it hard. I pull away roughly, and a man’s voice says, “No need to be so fancy with me, dearie. I’d wager a sovereign you were on the town, and it’s a long way to Van Diemen’s Land.”

  A sailor, boss-eyed and ugly. Men will try whatever they can. They’re men. Their cocks must be stirring at the prospect of so many women, never mind that the unfortunate creatures are dirty and poor, pockmarked and shabby. Once I see he doesn’t recognize me but is only trying his luck, I face him directly, leaning into his ugly face, so close that I can smell his disgusting breath. I speak softly, but my eyes never leave his face.

  “One finger on me and I’ll report you to the captain. After I’ve kicked your tiny balls to a porridge. And stabbed you in the neck with my scissors.”

  He scuttles away like the cockroach he is. He won’t trouble me again. If I know anything, I know men. He’ll be telling himself only that he picked the wrong woman and soon he’ll try again with someone more obliging.

  I’m trembling, even though no one saw our exchange. I wasn’t disturbed at being accosted by a man. This had been happening to me since I was a young girl, but I feared discovery. I want more than anything not to be noticed, not to be singled out. To mingle so seamlessly with the rest that I am as good as invisible on this voyage. Our group is the last to board and for now I’m safe in the belly of the Rajah.

  It won’t be long before we sail. I can’t let my guard down. I fear that someone will know me for who I really am. I long for the light and the air but will spend as much time as I can in the stifling darkness. The convict women who are my companions for the journey are thieves and swindlers, most of them, and I’ll pretend to be one, too, though I’ve stolen no more in my life than a woman’s name, and the crime of which I’m convicted is far worse: the worst of all crimes.

  I try not to think of what I’ve done. What I’m judged to be, as well as what I might become, depends upon whether I’m discovered. If anyone were to find me out, I’ll no longer be a petty criminal sailing toward a new life in Van Diemen’s Land but a woman with blood on her hands, who’ll be brought back to England to hang by the neck until dead on a prison gallows.

  Word among the women is that we’ll be casting off soon, maybe even tomorrow. If anyone finds me out before then . . . The breath leaves my body when I think about it. They must not. Being aboard this ship is a chance for me to leave behind the person I was. Many women have come to me, seeking me out since that first time, long ago, when I thought I was coming to the rescue of a single person.

  Before I was thrown into Millbank, I used to take babies from mothers who couldn’t care for them. Some would find homes with women who longed for a child. Others . . . well, I tried to lessen their pain and quiet them as gently as I could. There were some who’d call me dreadful names. But to those who sought my help, I was a comfort, an angel, a savior. No one, except those who have lived it, can understand the desperate state of some women after the birth of a child. I asked no questions. I did my best with each one.

  * * *

  * * *

  Almost as soon as I’ve found my berth Miss Hayter comes up to me. I’m sitting on my mattress when she stands beside it and says my name. I stand up at once, almost as though this new name
is the one I’d had since birth. Since childhood, I’ve learned everything quickly and a new identity won’t trouble me. Reading and writing, I got the measure of them quick enough. My father saw to that and I thank him for it. “If you can read and write, you’re set for life,” he told me. “They can’t hoodwink you with funny marks on paper, can they? Can’t pull a fast one . . .” I wasn’t very old before I realized that I could profit from speaking well, too, in my old lines of work. Among these women, my speech will be rougher than usual to fit in with the rest. I may find it hard to remember the name I was born with, I’ll be so much in my new character.

  “Please excuse me,” she says. “May I ask if you’ve ever done any sewing?” She smiles. “I see you are set down as a milliner. Have you ever tried patchwork?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  Miss Hayter takes a notebook out of a small bag hanging from her wrist and writes my name, with a tiny pencil, in a column of others. Patchwork . . . I know how to cover holes with squares of fabric to make a garment last longer. Perhaps that’ll be enough.

  “You may join our group,” she says, smiling. “I’d like to gather some of the women to take part in a joint endeavor. To make something that will be the work of all of us. I’m sure you’ll be useful to the company.”

  She’s shorter than me by almost a head. Her face, though not pretty, is pleasant enough and her eyes are clear and brown. Also, she has an air of calm about her. She walks the deck as though she were strolling through a park or taking the air at the seaside. Perhaps this was why the Ladies’ Committee chose her to be matron on the Rajah. Would the women listen to her? Pay attention to her orders? A kind smile isn’t going to serve her too well with some of the rougher, cruder women here.

  I stand a little to one side and look at the women around me. I wonder at their lives, their crimes. I know that not a single one has killed a fellow human being. If they had, they wouldn’t be here, but cold and dead with a rope round their neck.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sleeping’s hard. I see her, the one I’d left behind, tied up in Millbank. Something about her is me. Someone with my mind and her body is mounting wooden stairs that lead to the gallows. I wake up as the noose is pulled tight around my neck, gasping for air.

  I hoped to escape from my terror in dreams but she haunts me. Would she have the wit to protest her innocence, to tell them what had happened? There would be no tin ticket round her neck with her name on it . . . perhaps I’d condemned her to death. Surely she would speak. Perhaps because she was feebleminded, some jailer would recognize her.

  The gallows dream is one nightmare, but there’s another. I see babies sleeping. I hear them crying, and every one is gazing at me out of huge eyes. There are so many of us shut in down here, and I imagine all the women breathing at once and the pale ribbons of their breath weaving into the dark hollows of the space above our heads.

  I look around me at the others lying in the dark. I feel cold suddenly. What if one of them knew her? Crossed her path long ago. Whenever I speak her name, I won’t know who among my companions might once have met her. Even the silent and dim-witted may have friends. I’m not safe. I can’t count myself free.

  Marion begins to shriek. “I can’t,” she’s saying. “I can’t stay in the dark. Out! Take me out! I have to go out! On deck—someone, take me out. Please, I beg you all.”

  “Shut your mouth,” someone says.

  Another mutters, “Woken us all up, haven’t you? Selfish bitch, that’s what you are. Don’t care about the rest of us trying to sleep in this dump.”

  “Middle of the bleeding night, innit?” says another. But two women lying next to her, whose faces I can’t make out in the dim light, are helping her. I can hear what they’re saying.

  “Don’t listen to those cows, Marion. And close your eyes. You’ll feel better then. It’ll be daylight soon and you’ll be able to go out. I’ll take you myself. As soon as it’s light. They won’t let us out at this hour. They’d bring us back as soon as we were out on the deck.”

  Joan has come over to see what’s going on. “Hush, Marion dear,” she says. “Hold my hand. Close your eyes and hold my hand. Think of the sky. Think of how big and blue it is. Go to sleep now.”

  In the end, Marion falls asleep, soothed and comforted, but I’m wide awake. I’ve never been afraid of small spaces, or of confinement, though it terrifies many, but with the smell of unwashed women’s bodies, the snoring and the heavy breathing, the cries and murmurs coming out of so many mouths, it’s hard to find rest.

  I hope that my life will change. I wish for Clara Shaw to be put away forever. I wish for myself a new life with a new name, far away from England. If anyone were to discover who I really am, I would be forced to protect myself. In such a circumstance, I’d have no choice. I would be—I would have to be—prepared to act.

  4

  NOW

  5 July 1841

  Ninety-one days at sea

  The captain began to speak, the deep timbre of his voice filling the dank, cramped space of the convict quarters. “For those of you who weren’t up on deck,” he said, “I’m very sorry to have to tell you that your companion, Hattie Matthews, has been attacked and badly wounded.” He paused and looked around, over the heads of the nearest women so that his gaze fell on them all.

  “She going to die?” a woman called from the darkness of a far corner. She must have counted on staying hidden, must have thought she stood a good chance of going unnamed. She was wrong. Captain Ferguson was a thorough man.

  “Come forward into the light if you wish to ask a question. And tell me your name.”

  “Maud Ashton,” said the woman, pushing past her companions. She stared at her feet, and it was clear that she wished the dark would swallow her again.

  “Miss Matthews is gravely ill,” the captain went on, “and we don’t know whether she will live. Mr. Donovan, our surgeon, is with her now. I will ask my crew if anyone saw anything as the sun set and I will interrogate them most thoroughly, you may be sure. Meanwhile, every soul on this ship must hope very fervently that she does live, or someone on the Rajah is a murderer.”

  The Reverend Mr. Davies stepped forward. “You are, all of you, convicted felons, but this ship has been taking you to a new life, where you might have hoped to begin again. If one of you is found to be guilty of this assault, then your future in Van Diemen’s Land will not be what you hoped for. No, indeed.” He glared at the assembled company and his rich pulpit voice made those nearest to him flinch and cower away.

  “We’re not stabbers,” someone at the back shouted. “You got no right to say that! We ain’t done nothing.”

  Those around her began shouting, too. “You’ve got no right . . .”

  “We’d never . . .”

  “There’s nothing to say we done anything . . .”

  The three sailors strode into the crowd, pushing past the women to reach the ones who’d been shouting at the back.

  “Shut your face,” one cried. “Sit down and keep quiet if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Listen to the captain,” said another. “Where’s your manners, you scabby baggage?”

  The women retreated, and gradually the noise subsided. The sailors returned to stand behind the captain. Miss Hayter frowned and pressed her lips together, as though she were biting back a reprimand at the sailor’s language and tone.

  Whispering passed through the crowd as attention turned again to Maud Ashton. Mr. Davies stared sharply at her, as her mouth fell open and her eyes widened.

  “I never! I couldn’t. Not murder! Oh, God, not that. Not knives. I don’t know nothing about no knives,” she howled.

  “Sit down, woman!” Mr. Davies thundered.

  The captain stepped forward and spoke more calmly. “Please return to your place,” he said, quietly but clearly. “No one is accusing
you. But I will discover the truth, and when I do, there will be consequences. You will each be questioned and anyone who is found to be lying, or concealing something, will be confined until we dock at Hobart, then handed over to the authorities there. They will be prevented from seeking employment, and you all know that if Miss Matthews dies, a gallows awaits her murderer when we land.”

  Joan turned to Phyllis, another from the sewing circle, and muttered under her breath, “We’re all in danger now. Who’s to say that the guilty person won’t knife someone else? We don’t even know why they had a knife. Or where that knife is. How can we sleep quiet in our bunks with a mad person about?”

  “If you’ve not done nothing,” said Phyllis, “then you’ve not got nothing to worry about.”

  “We all have, if this is some addled lunatic,” said Joan. “No telling what’ll happen. And what if they don’t believe us? We’ve been sentenced once and made to come on this ship, and now they want to pass more judgments on us. What if they put someone in a cell and they’re innocent? How can they find who’s really to blame?”

  The captain spoke again. “Now, I must repeat that I hope most sincerely you will all be as helpful as you can. Mr. Donovan, Mr. Davies and I, with Miss Hayter, who knows you a great deal better than we do, will get to the bottom of this terrible event. I am setting up an inquiry. Anyone who has even the smallest piece of information should divulge it when questioned. I will find out the truth, and the person responsible will be punished appropriately. The Rajah will not come into port with secrets festering and perhaps a murderer on board. Do you understand?”

  Murmurs came from every side. Then Agnes Dwyer put up her hand.

  “Yes, Dwyer,” said Captain Ferguson. “You have something to say?”