by Hope Adams
Even the captain knew the names of the Newgate Nannies. No one had asked why Dwyer and Selwood went mostly by their surnames, though Tabitha Brown was called Tabitha.
“Most of us were down here,” she said. “Miss Hayter’s lot had just finished their stitching. We were wanting to eat our scraps of supper. We’re only up on deck for a short while in the morning and again in the afternoon. Once the sun’s gone down, we’re all here. You want to find out who was up on deck and save yourselves a deal of trouble. Those as weren’t on deck couldn’t have done it, could they? Stands to reason.”
The women shuffled uncomfortably as she spoke. Some were whispering behind their hands to their neighbors; one spat at another who’d said something to her that no one else could hear.
“How much longer do we have to listen to this?” a woman in the front dared to say, and a sailor went up to her and marched her to the back of the quarters.
“Quiet, all of you!” Mr. Davies bellowed, and silence fell again.
“How many of you were on deck?” Captain Ferguson asked. “Put up your hands, please. Those who are honest enough to confess won’t look kindly on anyone claiming to have been on the lower deck when this dreadful thing happened. I beg you, don’t lie.”
Kezia Hayter stepped forward and looked around her before she spoke. Sarah Goodbourne and Emily Paxton had their eyes cast down to the floor. Emily’s pox scars showed livid in the lantern light. Phyllis was hand in hand with Ann, looking nervously around her. Phyllis was a motherly person and found it easy to fall into caring for anyone she was with. Now it was Ann who had her protection. Ann was willing to hide in Phyllis’s shadow. Marion trembled and tears stood in her eyes. Miss Hayter was unsmiling, and her voice was quiet but clear. As she spoke, her hands were clutching the ends of her shawl so tightly that her knuckles showed white. “We, my needlewomen and I,” she said, “were on deck toward sunset. All eighteen of them, and myself, of course. I told everyone we’d be stopping soon and most of them went below. A few of us remained.” Her voice shook a little as she turned to the captain and the others. “I cannot believe,” she went on, “that one of my company was responsible for something so”—her hand went to her throat—“so very dreadful.”
Joan, Marion, Sarah, Ann, Phyllis and Emily put up their hands. Then Emily pointed at Tabitha Brown and almost spat, “You were there, too, Tabitha. You know you were.” She stared at Tabitha, who made a face and muttered a curse before she said, “I was just going to tell the gentleman. Think you’re so clever. I was just getting ready to speak, you silly bitch.” Tabitha showed her crooked teeth in a grin, as if nothing had happened.
“Enough!” the captain said, raising his voice above the hubbub. “Is that everyone?”
When no one spoke, the captain said, “Very well then. Seven of you. Can you vouch for one another? Was there no one else you saw, maybe one of the sailors, on the deck at sunset? Stand up, please.”
They did so, and everyone stared at them. “Wouldn’t you know it?” someone called. “It’s those stitching ones, innit? They’ve been thinking they’re a cut above the rest of us since London and now look at ’em. Not so fine and fancy now. Talk about pride coming before a fall!”
Joan spoke: “The sailors on the watch were there, but no one else. At any rate, I don’t remember anyone else. I wasn’t really looking to see who was there and who wasn’t. Miss Hayter’d just left us. She took the patchwork with her, wrapped up, same as always. It was very quiet . . .” She stared at her feet, as if looking down might help her bring something else to mind. “Hattie said something about how beautiful the evening was, then walked toward the rail. We turned back to our own pockets, to make sure we’d taken everything we’d brought up on deck. We were getting ready to go below . . . Then I think we went sternwards, about to come down here.”
“Very well,” said the captain. “We have seven women. You’ve come forward voluntarily, for which I commend you. The rest of you were down in these quarters so couldn’t have stabbed Miss Matthews. Beginning tomorrow, our inquiry will speak to each one of you, to try to establish who”—he stared at each woman in turn—“might have done such a thing. It is very hard to believe that any of you would have acted in this way. We’ll get to the bottom of this sorry affair.”
He said no more, but the women gazed at him, their eyes fearful and their mouths hanging open.
“Spare yourselves the trouble, why don’t you?” someone called. “Ask Hattie. She’ll tell you who stuck a blade in her, sure enough, without you having to go through this ragbag of nonsense.”
At that moment, there was a noise of rapid steps coming down the companionway.
Mr. Donovan, known to the entire ship as a pleasant, cheerful man, always ready with a greeting, was sweating in spite of the chill, his mouth set in a grim line. He spoke as though all his energy had been exhausted.
“Captain, if I might answer?” The captain nodded. “I’ve been at Hattie’s side till now and I must return to her directly. Her little boy, Bertie, is with her. I’ve asked Hattie who her attacker was. Several times. But she cannot reply. She’s without consciousness much of the time, but perhaps when she returns to herself . . . I would urge you all to be vigilant. Bertie will be brought down shortly. Good night.”
The captain interrupted the uneasy silence that had fallen. “Mr. Davies, will you lead us in a prayer?”
The women bowed their heads as the clergyman began to speak: “Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
The men and Miss Hayter went back up the companionway, leaving the women alone. All around, they began to talk, their voices rising and falling in the near darkness. Will the captain sort it out? . . .
Poor Hattie. Oh, she must be in agony. I know what knives can do . . .
Some rough ones on here . . .
Is there a knife hidden? Is it still here?
We won’t be straight till it’s sorted. Captain’ll sort it.
In the end, the voices faded away and noise became silence, like the flame of a candle guttering into darkness. Someone knew something. There was a woman, perhaps more than one, who might have said something, who might have produced a fragment of truth that would show the way, but fear held her back, every enlightening word stuck in her throat, like a bit of gristle that would choke her if she spoke.
Around the ship, the black waters rolled and stretched to a black horizon. Down in the convict quarters, wakeful women muttered in their bunks, and the heads of the sleepers were filled with dreams of blood.
5
THEN
Cotton patch: wide bands of olive-green alternating with narrow bands of blue. The olive bands overprinted with bright sprays of red, white and blue flowers. The blue stripes marked with white vertical lines and red spots
April 1841
HATTIE
“You take your dirty thieving paws off my son’s food, you little bitch.” Hattie was shouting loudly enough for the women nearby to stop what they were doing and stare at her, but she didn’t give a damn what they thought. If her son was being done out of his dinner, no matter how revolting, of hard ship’s biscuits with greasy gravy thrown over them, by a skinny, pasty-faced thief, she wouldn’t stand by. “You’re a nasty bit of work, taking the grub out of a child’s mouth.”
Her left hand was now clamped round the thief’s wrist and squeezing. She leaned in close to the girl’s face and stared into a pair of eyes wide with terror. “You get along, and keep as far away from me and mine as you can in this hellhole. D’you understand? Or do I have to squeeze your skinny little wrist even harder? I can, you know. Could break it if I wanted to.”
“No, please stop.” The girl was shaking her head and pulling to try to free her wrist. “I’m going. I promise I won’t do it agai
n. Let me go. Please.”
Hattie gave one last squeeze, because she could, and let go. “Piss off, then.” The girl rubbed her wrist and scuttled off. Hattie smiled. Won’t be seeing her again, she thought. Or if I do, she’ll make herself scarce. She went to sit beside Bertie, making sure he was eating his food. Vile or not, it was all there was and he needed to get it down him in order to stay healthy on this voyage.
Everyone down here, she knew, had been divided into smaller groups, called “messes,” of about a dozen women. One of the Committee Ladies had explained, even before they left Millbank, that they would live aboard ship in smaller groups, sharing food, and keeping their particular berths, and the area around them, as clean as was possible. The bunks were narrow and hard, as hard as prison beds, but what she’d learned of the others in her own mess didn’t dismay her. She remembered some of their names and would soon know the rest.
There was Susan, who looked old, with her white hair and sad face, sitting mute beside the bundle of her possessions. And Phyllis, who would be a fusspot, Hattie knew, from the way she arranged her things around her, then looked about for something else to organize. Good luck to her, Hattie thought. Let her be the cook and the one responsible for whatever she felt the need to clean up and tidy. Izzy Croft was there, too, still sitting very close to her friend, Becky Finch, who was small and plump, with mud-brown eyes and hair to match. Hattie couldn’t understand what either woman saw in the other but had long ago given up wondering what drew people together. She’d been locked up with those two and remembered them in corners with their heads together, giggling. Prison gossip said they were as good as married. Well, she thought, it’s not my business what they do.
Hattie knew herself well and her companions, after hearing her lose her temper, would also know her a little better. She’d have to be more careful, she could see, because she was determined to be taken for a cheerful, charming young woman on this ship. She’d grown used to putting on a show, but some of her innermost thoughts would have alarmed many who saw only her pretty face and gentle smile. Before Kitty was taken away, the world had seemed to Hattie a kind place. She’d been kind, too. Since then, she’d learned that you had to do what you could to make life better for yourself. Some things she’d done had been far from kind, but she’d only done them to improve their situation, hers and Bertie’s, and for no other reason. What would be good for Hattie and Bertie was now always at the front of her mind. Sometimes getting what she wanted came at a cost, and kind Hattie vanished behind a woman who wouldn’t flinch at what she might need to do. And in defense of Bertie, there was nothing she wouldn’t do.
Many of the women Hattie had spoken to on the Rajah were sad. They longed for the family they’d left behind, for their lives in England: all that remained to them was the shame of a sentence that had banished them to the other side of the world. Hattie didn’t share their dismay. On the contrary, if she couldn’t be free, she was eager to see a new place. Van Diemen’s Land, she’d been told, was hot and sunny for much of the time and, best of all, a territory where someone determined to make a new life could do wondrous things. She imagined Bertie running along a beach, playing in the waves and coming home to her in a house that would be plain but clean.
Hattie was good at daydreaming and she was aware that this gift made her unusual among her acquaintances. Most people, she knew, couldn’t see further than the very next day. They think they love their children, she told herself, but it’s not like my love for Bertie. My love’s as different from theirs as diamonds are from paste. From the moment of his birth, every one of Hattie’s desires had been bound up with Bertie: his future, his education, his welfare. She vowed to herself that she’d use every ounce of her energy to make Bertie’s life good and comfortable. The idea of her son suffering in any way plunged her into the deepest anguish, and often during his early childhood she would stand beside his cradle as he slept, gazing at his little face, offering up silent prayers that God might take special care of him.
“Isn’t he a bonny boy?” came a voice.
The woman who’d spoken was skinny, with some fair hair sticking out from under the scarf bound round her head. Thin lips, watery gray eyes, her skin somewhat marked by pox. She wasn’t much to look at, but her voice was low and sweet, and Bertie was peering up at her. She bent down to him and said, smiling, “He’ll be well looked after, be sure of that,” she said. “My name’s Emily—Emily Paxton.” She leaned down to talk to Bertie. “I’ve been asked to teach the children, so I’ll be giving you your lessons. What’s your name?”
“Bertie,” said the child, turning to see if his mother was noticing this attention from a stranger. “Albert, really, but I’m called Bertie.”
“Well, Bertie, remember that you can always come to me for a game and a song. And there are other children here on the Rajah, you know. We’ll learn together, and enjoy ourselves while doing it.”
“Do you have children of your own?” Hattie asked, then regretted it. Perhaps Emily had left them in England and would not like to be reminded of them. She had been lucky, being allowed to bring Bertie with her to the Rajah. Not everyone could. If you had relations in court, they’d hand the child to the family, but Hattie had had no one with her in front of the judge, and she’d been as sweet and obliging as she could be so he’d agreed that her child could accompany her to the other side of the world. If he hadn’t, Hattie knew she’d have killed both of them, rather than endure separation. Bertie would never have been able to live without his mother. It would be good to have help with him, good to know that he would be taught his letters, and this woman seemed pleasant enough. Hattie could see her hesitating now, as if unwilling to answer Hattie’s question.
“I had a son, but he died.”
“Oh, Lord, there’s a thing. I shouldn’t have asked. How hard, how sad for you.” Hattie took Emily’s hand and squeezed it.
Emily pointed to the pox scars that marred her cheeks. “This got him. Two years ago. Wish it had taken me instead.” She looked hard at Hattie. “Can you imagine what that’s like? Your child gone?”
Hattie’s eyes widened. She put out a hand and grasped Emily’s shoulder. “Oh, no, I can’t. I really cannot . . .”
That was a lie. Hattie could imagine such a situation far too well. There had been nights in his life, while her son was sick or small or teething and crying, when Hattie had conjured up picture after picture in her mind of Bertie’s corpse laid out in a coffin. She’d imagined his funeral a thousand times and had many times considered carefully what she would feel in such circumstances. There, her imagination failed her entirely. A black abyss opened in her mind and she saw, and felt, nothing but icy darkness. Now, because Emily had reminded her of it, it was as though something was grasping her heart, deep within her body, and she felt faint and sick. She had to close her eyes till the sensation of horror left her. This was an effort, but at last she smiled at Emily. “I’m so very sorry, Emily.”
“I try not to think of him too much. I’ve not said his name to anyone. Not on this ship. When the smallpox came, we both fell ill and God took him. Don’t tell the others. Please . . .”
“I promise I won’t say a word to anyone.”
“I’ll whisper his name if you promise not to tell.”
“I won’t say it to anyone,” Hattie said. “I promise.”
Emily leaned forward and whispered a name into Hattie’s ear.
“That’s lovely,” Hattie whispered back.
She wanted to say something more, offer a bit of comfort, but couldn’t find words. What could you say when a small child lay dead? If Bertie was struck down by a horrible illness . . . Hattie couldn’t think of such a thing without tears coming to her eyes. She reached out to embrace Emily, and Emily let herself be held, but pulled away after a few moments. She said, “Thank you, Hattie. No one’s been this kind to me, not for years. No one asks. Thank you.” She smiled.
Hattie was about to say something when the matron came up to them.
“Good day to you,” she said.
“Say good day to the kind lady, Bertie,” said Hattie, pushing her son forward a little with one hand and using the other to straighten his threadbare coat.
“Good day, Miss,” said the child, smiling. “My name’s Albert, but Ma calls me Bertie.”
“Not Miss, Bertie,” said his mother quickly. “Miss Hayter, or Matron. This is the lady who’s in charge of all of us.”
“The captain’s in charge,” said Bertie.
Hattie felt mortified. “That’s rude. The captain’s in charge of sailing the ship, but Matron’s in charge of us. I told you so, don’t you remember?”
“The captain is in charge, Bertie. You’re quite right,” said Miss Hayter. “My work is to help your mama and the other women in every way. And I’m sure you’ll help me, won’t you? How old are you?”
“I’m six, Miss,” said Bertie proudly, standing straight and saluting. “I’m big enough to help you.”
Miss Hayter laughed and Hattie felt both proud and embarrassed. She said, “He’s used to speaking out, Miss. I’ve tried to make him mind me, but he can be cheeky. He means no harm.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” said Miss Hayter. “He’s a delightful child and a great credit to you.” She paused. “I see from the register that you worked as a children’s nurse and also in a laundry. Did you sew in either of those employments?”
“Yes, Miss Hayter.”
Hattie could have added, though she didn’t, that the crime of which she’d been convicted had also often involved using her needle.
“Then you’ll be of great use to me in my work on this voyage. I’ll speak very soon to you and the others I’ve chosen about my plans. Tell me your name and I will write it down.”
“Harriet Matthews, Miss Hayter. I’m called Hattie, though.”
