by Hope Adams
“Indeed,” Kezia murmured. “If only Hattie could tell us who attacked her, there would be no need for this.”
Mr. Davies sat down and smoothed the page of the logbook in front of him. He was the person deemed most accustomed to writing and had been asked to note down what was important at each meeting. Kezia thought he took it for granted, behaving as though the logbook was his, and as if he was quite used to noting proceedings in every kind of meeting. Mr. Donovan went to stand near the window, looking out at the sea through the small panes of leaded glass.
Charles said, “Miss Hayter, I am glad you’re here to draw out the confidences of the women.”
“We are perfectly capable of doing that,” Mr. Davies muttered.
“But a friendly face will reassure them,” Kezia said firmly. “Otherwise they may be quite overwhelmed by their surroundings and unable to speak. They would then be of no use to you in your proceedings.”
Now Charles smiled at her. “We’ll try to discover where the knife came from, of course,” he answered, “but you mustn’t forget that these women are criminals. A judgment and a sentence have been passed on every one of them. They are convicts being transported for every sort of misdemeanor.”
“Not one of them is a killer or the kind of woman who would carry a knife about her person.” Kezia stood near her place at the table, trying to calm the rising anger she felt. “They all have scissors, it’s true, but, Mr. Donovan, you said a knife had made the wounds, not something as small as a pair of sewing scissors.”
“I did, and I stand by that,” said Mr. Donovan, turning away from the window to answer her.
Kezia went on, “And as for being criminals, you know very well that they’re guilty of petty offenses, and being transported because there’s hope for their rehabilitation. There’s a difference between stealing clothes from a market stall that you need to sell in order to feed your children and plunging a blade into a young woman’s . . .” Kezia hesitated, more intent on controlling her own feelings than explaining to the others what she was sure they already knew. It would do her women no good if she were to lose her temper, but she felt seconds away from shouting at the men.
“Whoever did such a thing,” Charles said quickly, and Kezia sensed from his tone that he was trying to soothe her and bring her back to the task before them, “was clearly desperate.”
Kezia sighed. “There are nearly two hundred women on this ship, Captain. I can’t know all of them as well as I’d like to, of course, but I thought I could speak for my women. We . . . they have been so diligently at work on our joint endeavor that they’ve become a group of like-minded persons bent on one good end.” She put up a hand to tuck in a strand of hair that had escaped from one of the pins that held it. “I thought, also, that ties of friendship and, yes, even love were binding them together. Was I wrong? Might it not have been one of the crew, after all? Have you spoken to them? If it turns out that one of my women is the culprit, there must have been much of which I wasn’t aware and that hurts me more than I can say. I should have done better, worked harder at understanding what ailed them.”
“I’m sure you are not at fault,” said the captain. “But it would be useful to know about them before we see them. I did not take down their names.”
Kezia said, “Their names are Joan Macdonald, Emily Paxton, Marion Williams, Sarah Goodbourne, Ann Skipton, Phyllis Armstrong, Tabitha Brown . . . What can I tell you about each one? Some I know better than others. Marion Williams, who will come here first this morning, suffers with her health a little.”
The captain nodded and Kezia went on: “She hates to be confined, feels as though she cannot breathe in small spaces, has bad dreams and imagines that every sort of illness is either afflicting her or about to descend on her.” Kezia wondered what else she could say that would convince the men. Did they understand anything of weakness? Of terror? Of pain? “She’s fearful and timid, and would no more pick up a knife to harm Hattie than fly to the moon.”
“You must not say such things, Miss Hayter,” Mr. Davies said. “We, who are listening to evidence, cannot decide who is innocent and who is guilty before we know the truth of what’s gone on.”
How dare you tell me what I must and must not say? Kezia thought, but she forced herself to bite back her answer and instead walked to her place, saying nothing till she was sitting down.
“I think I may be allowed,” she said gently, facing Mr. Davies, “an opinion about the character of my women.” She smiled as sweetly as she could. “I can’t believe—I still can’t believe—that any of them could possibly have done such a thing. Marion isn’t very clever, though she’s kind. I’ve seen that with my own eyes. I’ve seen her helping her neighbors. She has no enemies that I’ve seen. I know she likes Hattie—she told me herself, somewhat ruefully, that she wished she had half of Hattie’s optimism about the future.”
Kezia went on speaking forcefully, determined that none of the men should interrupt her. “Phyllis maintains order among the women. Sarah’s quiet but there is intelligence in her eyes when she dares to raise them. Ann is quick with a sharp response but can be hard to read. She’s not someone I could vouch for as firmly as the others . . . but I’m sure there’s no violent impulse in her. If Joan is responsible, I will never believe good of anyone ever again. I’m convinced she’s innocent of the crime for which she’s being transported. Mr. Donovan has nothing but good things to say of her work in the hospital.”
“She’s an excellent helper.” Mr. Donovan nodded in agreement.
Kezia continued, more quickly and urgently now. “Emily Paxton teaches the children well and they love her. Surely children wouldn’t love someone who could use a knife on another woman. Don’t they perceive innocence and guilt with more accuracy than their elders? Tabitha, if I’m honest, I can imagine her having some familiarity with a knife. She’s one of the Newgate Nannies. But if it is her, then why?”
“That is what we must find out,” Charles said. “We are speaking first, you say, to Marion Williams.”
Mr. Davies dipped his pen. “Is that Marion with an a or with an o?” he asked.
“I think an o,” said Kezia, “but you must ask her when she arrives.” She thought it typical of the clergyman to be more concerned with spelling at such a moment than with the character of the woman he was about to see.
Charles appeared at her right shoulder. “May I have a word with you, Miss Hayter?” he murmured. To the others, he said, “I must confer with Miss Hayter privately, if you’ll excuse us.”
Kezia rose from her place and followed him to the other side of the room, where a pair of comfortably upholstered chairs were drawn up near the window.
“Let us sit down for a moment,” he said. “I want to ask you something.” He looked over to where Mr. Donovan and Mr. Davies were deep in conversation. “You were about to answer my question about who might have had a grudge against Hattie Matthews.”
Kezia put a hand over her mouth, as if, even now, she could still prevent this secret from being spoken. “I’m sorry,” she said, “that I didn’t speak of this before. It was wrong of me. I should have told you, but I promised to say nothing. There was a threat against Hattie, not very long after we left London.”
Kezia was about to say more, but the door opened and Marion Williams came into the room.
7
THEN
Cotton triangle: indigo print with lines of widely spaced yellow chevrons. In between the chevrons, a pattern of yellow flowers and leaves
April 1841
CLARA
We’ve set sail at last. All of us came up from the lower decks and stood at the rail, even though it was windy and chilly and the sky was threatening rain. A stiff breeze was blowing from the east, and it made us shiver, clutching our shawls more closely around us. We watched first London, then the mouth of the river, then the whole of England growing smaller and sma
ller and finally disappearing. Many women have already found friends. Well, they’ve been confined below for many days, some of them. Several came from further away than London—Edinburgh, Ireland, Wales—but London is my home, and no matter what happened there, I’ll still miss it.
I remember my dream from the night before, and comfort myself that it was only my mind playing tricks to trouble me. I’d had no bad dreams while I was busy in my own life, going about my work. But since my time in prison, they come to me often. I see small babies, some wrapped in swaddling blankets, others naked, many crying, and I try to pick up each one but they slip away from me and are lost in a kind of mist. The sound of their wailing stays in my head long after I’ve woken up. I’ll say nothing about my past life on this ship. No one needs to know my history. Being transported to the other side of the world means what’s done can be forgotten. Except at night, and I’ll bear that.
I find myself mesmerized by the swell and roll of the waves. Far below us, the dark sea moves like a living creature.
As everything we knew vanishes over the horizon, I feel weak. Then I become aware of someone next to me and turn to see a woman weeping. It’s Joan Macdonald. She’s making no sound, but she’s taken off her spectacles and put them away. Tears have begun to fall from her eyes, unchecked. I wish I had a handkerchief I could offer her. She’s trembling, too, and pressing her lips together, as though keeping back a terrible cry of anguish. I’ve no desire to draw attention to myself, but her evident unhappiness shakes me a little.
A sailor, who’s been standing nearby, comes up to us and holds a handkerchief out to her. “Isaac Margrove, if you please,” he says. “At your service. It’s a clean handkerchief. Be my pleasure if you made use of it.”
Joan looks at him, startled. He takes her hand and closes it around the fabric. “A gift, madam,” he says. “And you’re welcome.” He smiles at Joan and she makes a noble effort to smile back but fails.
“I thank you kindly, Mr. Margrove.”
“I go by Isaac,” he says, and turns to walk away. He’s a good-looking man of about fifty, with iron-gray hair and a straight back.
Joan wipes her eyes and her nose, and puts the handkerchief away. Her sorrow seems different from that of the other women. It comes, I think, from somewhere so deep within her that my heart would have to be made of ice to be unmoved by it. I say, “Will you tell me what’s the matter?”
I half expect her to say nothing, but she turns and looks at me out of faded brown eyes. She points toward England, visible on the horizon.
“I can’t bear it,” she says then. “There they all are, and I’m here . . . How will I live without seeing them?”
“Seeing who?” I ask, even though I can guess the answer. It’s surely the same for everyone. The ones who have children will yearn for them. The ones who have living parents will fear their deaths, their sicknesses and being unable to help them. Maybe a few are like me: glad to be rid of what they’ve left behind. More than one spouse, I’m sure, is relieved to be rid of a cruel or bullying husband. But Joan Macdonald is unlike the others. She doesn’t seem eager to tell me of her losses, putting out a hand to steady herself against the rail. But our conversation must have calmed her a little, for she’s stopped crying. She makes some effort to compose herself, wiping her eyes again on Isaac’s handkerchief, then putting it into a pocket of her apron. She takes out her spectacles again and puts them on. She collects herself and says, “My Lydia gave birth two months ago. That’s one child I won’t see growing up. And the others . . . all of them. My two daughters and four grandchildren. I shan’t see them again. And what of my place, my house? The garden . . .” She shakes her head, as if to dislodge images too sad to think about. “It’s not much, where I live, only a couple of rooms, but daffodils. Will there be daffodils in Van Diemen’s Land?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “but there will be other flowers. Native to the place . . .”
I know nothing about what does and doesn’t grow on the other side of the world but I speak as though I know it well, without even a hint of vagueness or hesitation. Then I add, “And you’ll come back to England at the end of your sentence. How long is your term of transportation?”
“Fifteen years,” she answers. I wait to hear details of her crime, but she says only, “I’m innocent. I didn’t do what they say I did.” She speaks without passion, as though she’s passing on a piece of ordinary information, but she sounds more determined and energetic than she did before. I smile. I know, even though I’ve not spent long with convicts, that most of them claim they’re innocent. Fifteen years is a long sentence and this woman seems frail. She must have been far stronger in her youth, but now she’s like a flower that’s been crushed underfoot.
“That’s that, then,” she says. “Nothing but the water all round us for weeks on end. Those children will need care.”
She points to where one of the boys has clambered onto a box on the deck. Two others, a dark-haired boy and a younger girl, are squealing and laughing.
“’Ere, watch what you’re doing,” shouts one of the women standing nearby. “You nearly had her eye out then.”
“Didn’t,” says the boy, sticking his tongue out at the woman, who rushes at him and slaps him across the back of his legs. He’s wailing and crying now and his mother, a fat, slow woman, rolls along to his rescue. I haven’t seen her before.
“Get off him. Not your business to go slapping people about for no reason.” Slapping anyone looks as if it might be too much effort for her. To her son, she says, “You! Stop it! Before I box your ears off.”
“What’s happening here, ladies?”
And here he is. The captain. His words cast a spell of stillness and silence over them. No one answers his question so he goes on. “The children were playing, I think. No great harm done.” He ignores the mother and addresses the boy himself. “I’m the captain of this ship, you know.”
The boy nods, overawed, and rubs at his sore leg.
“When my men misbehave, d’you know what I do?”
“No, sir.”
“I promise you, you don’t want to find out . . . and I’ll not look kindly on passengers who misbehave, either. Am I being clear?”
“Yes, sir. Only I didn’t. I didn’t misbehave. We was playing. It were an accident.”
The captain says, “Very well. We’ll say no more . . . but no misbehavior. I have your word, young man?”
“Yes, sir,” says the boy, and goes to hide himself in his mother’s skirts.
“Very good,” the captain says. “Good day to you.” He moves off quickly, clearly eager to be away from the women, who are all staring after him as he strides away.
I turn to Joan. “I don’t think the captain’s used to having women and children aboard the Rajah.”
“He’ll have to get used to it, then. We’ve all got to make do with what we’ve got. I’m not used to nursing, but I’ve said I’ll do it to help Mr. Donovan.”
“We won’t be able to see it for much longer,” I say. “The land, I mean.”
Joan and I stare over the rail at the sea all around us. The sun’s come out and it glitters in the unexpected light, as if someone’s scattered diamonds over its surface.
8
THEN
Cotton piece: dark ground scattered thickly with very small dots in pale green and widely spaced stylized sprays of leaves, also green
April 1841
KEZIA
In all my life, Kezia thought, I’ve not seen so many women together in one spot. Almost two hundred of them, standing in a crowd that seemed to have been robbed of color. What she saw before her was a sea of brown and dun and black and gray, with not a glimpse of red or yellow or heartening green to relieve the gloom. Kezia’s eyes rose from the mass and she stared at the iron-gray sky, and the white crests of foam on the dark waves breaking around the hull. The movemen
t of the ship still terrified many of the women. Kezia noticed it in the way they walked on deck, putting out their hands to steady themselves on anything that seemed to be solid and fixed, as though they expected at any moment to be thrown off their feet. The weather had not been rough but, still, the Rajah was like a living creature, ceaselessly moving and rolling and pitching.
“A penny for your thoughts, Miss Hayter,” Mr. Donovan said, sounding as ever both cheerful and friendly. The captain, Mr. Donovan, Mr. Davies and Kezia were standing together on the forecastle of the Rajah. Kezia hadn’t wanted to confess that she was nervous about addressing so many people at once, so she replied, “I was thinking how deep the sea must be. How much water there is in this world.” Which was a lie at that particular moment but which, she comforted herself, was the truth in a more general way.
Now they were singing and prayers soon followed but for once Kezia’s attention was not fully fixed on attending to them and their meaning. She was distracted by the sky. In London, there were often low clouds to cover it. There were shops and churches and grand houses to distract the eye, but here it was easy to become lost in an immensity of gray. The Rajah, too, took her attention from what she should have been thinking about: the graceful curve of the swelling canvas sails, the men who sailed her gathered behind the women, listening to Mr. Davies as he said the Lord’s Prayer and then began to preach.
When the short sermon was over, the captain stepped forward and said, “I thank Mr. Davies most sincerely for leading our prayers this morning. We are all, I have no doubt, uplifted and improved from listening to him. We count ourselves very fortunate to have him aboard the Rajah.” He then turned to Kezia, who was standing a little further away, and smiled. “And now Miss Hayter has asked to be allowed to address you. Miss Hayter . . .”
