by Hope Adams
Marion shook her head vehemently. “No. I don’t know nothing about knives. Not me. Hate them, more than anything. Never saw any knife, never.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Donovan. He exchanged a glance with the captain, who nodded, and added, “You may go now, Marion. I think we’re agreed.”
“Yes, Marion. You are excused,” Mr. Davies put in. Kezia could see his irritation as Marion scuttled out of the room, as though fiends were at her back.
“We’ve learned nothing new,” he muttered.
Kezia waited to hear what the others would say, but Charles took her by surprise. “Miss Hayter has something she would like to show us, I believe.”
Kezia saw Mr. Davies opening his mouth like a fish, no doubt to make some objection, but he closed it again and turned to her. “Indeed,” he said, “and what might that be?”
“There had been a threat against Hattie.”
“What sort of threat?” Mr. Donovan asked, leaning forward over the table with a sudden new interest.
“I have it here.” Kezia willed her hands to stop shaking as she took a small notebook from the pocket of her dress, opened it and laid it flat on the table. Then she lifted a piece of cloth from between the pages and held it up for the men to see.
“What is it?” Mr. Davies asked.
“A square from our patchwork,” Kezia told him. “We use them complete, or cut them in half to form triangles . . .”
“I see that it’s a square,” said Mr. Davies, “but I fail to see how such a thing might be interpreted as a threat.”
Kezia heard the laughter in his voice. “You must look at it more carefully, sir,” she said. “Read what’s embroidered on the fabric. Turn it over.”
Mr. Davies took the little square of pale blue flower-printed cotton from her and peered at it: Speak & you die.
He shook his head and passed it to the captain, who looked carefully at it, then handed it to Mr. Donovan.
For a few moments, there was silence.
“Where did you find this?” Charles asked.
“It was left on Hattie’s pillow several weeks ago. She came to me. She was quite distressed and I regret saying nothing about it before.” Kezia bowed her head. “Perhaps if I’d spoken earlier . . . but I gave Hattie my word that I’d say nothing. She was so frightened . . . but I thought it was perhaps a trick played by an unkind woman. I didn’t think it was of great importance. I decided it was probably someone making mischief.” Kezia’s voice faltered.
“Regrets are of no use to us,” said Charles. “We shall find out who embroidered this patch, in the course of our investigations, because that’s of the utmost importance. Whoever is responsible for it must be the same person who attacked Hattie.”
The others nodded, but Kezia was less sure. She could not have explained it to anyone, or even to herself, but she felt that such an answer was far too simple.
10
NOW
7 July 1841
Ninety-three days at sea
There was hardly any wind. This was the best kind of weather for those women who spent hours of the day stitching on deck. Today a mood at odds with the pale sunshine had settled over them. Without their matron, who had not yet joined them, the women were quieter, still shocked by what had happened to Hattie, less inclined to bicker. They seemed more peaceful and better disposed toward one another, hiding their fear for Hattie and for themselves. Everyone had been looking over their shoulder since the stabbing, for who could tell what would happen next? There were no cross words. Everyone was working on the outer border of the patchwork, and the carefully ordered arrangement of flowers and plants, stripes, dots and many colors lay spread over their knees, like a meadow made of different fabrics.
“Once, when I was a girl . . .” said Phyllis, peering into the pocket she, like all the needlewomen, wore pinned to her waist. She took out a small pair of scissors and snipped at the loose end left hanging as she came to the end of the thread in her needle. She paused, her hands on her knees, before choosing the next square, then continued. “. . . my ma sent me to fetch ale, to see if my father was in the alehouse and bring him home if I could. That weren’t easy. He was stuck to that stool and I didn’t want him back anyhow. Free with his fists, when he’d had a few.” Others nodded.
Phyllis went on: “He came with me all right, that night, but not before some poxy bastard’d made a remark. Felt my tits as I handed over the bottle. Da didn’t say a word and I wanted to kick him—hard. Kicking was the worst thing I could think of doing, then. I wanted my father punished more than the other fellow. Why’d he do nothing to protect me? I stared down at the plate lying on the counter. Someone’d left a piece of pie with a fork sticking up out of it. My head was full of black fog, like, and I picked up the fork and stuck it as hard as I could into that bastard’s hand.”
“Should’ve gone for his balls,” said Tabitha, knowingly.
“Couldn’t reach ’em,” Phyllis answered.
“Was there blood?” Sarah asked. Everyone looked up, their hands stilled, needles poised.
Phyllis smiled. “Jugfuls. I was strong and young and crosser than a wet cat. I stabbed him as hard as I could and must’ve got a vein or some such because blood poured out of him, all over his hand, which he pulled away, quicker than quick.”
“Then what happened?” Ann leaned forward. “What did your pa do?”
“He dragged me out of there by my hair. Kicked me all the way home and sent me to bed with no supper. Ma brought me up a bread crust spread with a bit of dripping once he’d passed out. God, he stank. I could smell him from where my bed was: beer and piss and sweat. How Ma slept next to that, I’ll never know. I left home soon after. Ma didn’t stop me . . . She’d have left if she could, but my sisters were only little. Once I was in service, and went back to see them, Da was dead. Story was he’d had a seizure, but I don’t know. I’d have poisoned him if he’d been my husband. Maybe she did and maybe she didn’t. Never asked. But I’ve often thought, what if there’d been a knife sticking out of that pie? What would’ve happened then?”
Phyllis turned to thread her needle, and the others bent their heads to their work. Alice muttered, “Dear Lord, preserve us from all harm.” No one took the slightest notice, for she was given to voicing prayers from time to time, almost under her breath. A slight breeze had sprung up, lifting the edges of the coverlet, as the sunlight caught the steel of a dozen needles and sent glitters of light into the air.
Smooth sailing. The Rajah moves lightly: wood and rope and metal borne by the weight of water. Her sounds are a creaking and a sighing of the wind in the canvas of the sails. She’s looking west, to where the sun dips below the line of the horizon. The land is falling out of sight behind her and she’s lost all memory of it. The horizon calls to her. Reach me, it says. Find me.
11
THEN
Cotton piece: white ground with alternate mustard and white bands. Mustard bands with black motif; white bands with turquoise and yellow flowers
April 1841
KEZIA
Kezia made her way along the deck to the captain’s cabin, feeling rather proud of herself for overcoming the slight nausea that had afflicted her earlier in the day. She was also hungry, and hoped that the smells wafting from the galley would be translated into tasty food. I must have found my sea legs, she thought, if I can look forward to my dinner.
The captain’s cabin was small but managed to combine a study with a dining room in all respects like such a room on land. The chairs were upholstered in dark green leather. The table gleamed in the light of a lantern suspended above it. Someone had polished it so hard that Kezia could see the pale outline of her face reflected in the wood.
“My dear Miss Hayter,” said the Reverend Mr. Davies. “It is a great pleasure to meet you properly at last. I regret that I have not talked with you before now. My dear frie
nds Mrs. Fry and Mrs. Pryor have spoken to me of your accomplishments.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Kezia. “I’m very glad to be of service.”
He was a tall, thin, sallow man, with a piercing gaze and a nose that was rather too long. His mouth was pinched and small and gave his face a discontented appearance, but perhaps he was still grieving for his wife, who had died recently.
“I am told,” he said, peering down at Kezia, “that you have plans to occupy some of the women with needlework. I believe you began on the work today. Are you quite sure this is appropriate? It seems to me that a sewing circle is the very opposite of a punishment, and we must not forget that these women are being punished.”
Kezia tried to find polite words in which to express her thoughts, though she felt anger rising within her. She managed to govern herself enough to say quietly, “The loss of their freedom and the impossibility of seeing those they love for many years is the punishment, sir. There is no need to add to it with other things. You will agree with me, I feel sure, for do you not serve a God who is, above all, merciful?”
Mr. Donovan was suddenly beside her and must have overheard the conversation. “She has you there, sir, to be sure.” He laughed. Then he turned to Kezia and added, “I believe you’ve asked permission from the captain for the women to take exercise on deck.”
“On deck?” Mr. Davies could hardly contain himself. “Surely that would be—”
“Very sensible,” Mr. Donovan said. “We don’t want a ship full of ailing women, falling sick and even dying.”
“Surely no one will die for lack of exercise, sir,” Mr. Davies protested.
“Well, we’ll never know because the captain has said they are to breathe fresh air and walk about every day. Within certain limits, to be sure.”
Mr. Donovan went to speak to another of the officers and Mr. Davies turned to Kezia again, this time asking about her work in the London prisons. “I have preached at Millbank on occasion,” Mr. Davies continued.
“Indeed, I heard you,” said Kezia. The clergyman looked gratified at this news. He began to discuss sermons in general and his own in particular. Kezia wondered how long he’d go on talking about himself, if he were left uninterrupted. He might go on for the whole evening, she thought. How could she stop him? She was grateful when Captain Ferguson appeared and put a hand on his elbow.
While she’d been brushing her hair before dinner, Kezia had wondered what it would be like to speak to the captain in a social way. Would he be any less formal and reserved than he’d shown himself thus far? She had hoped they might have a more cordial exchange, but he spoke only to Mr. Davies and she felt somewhat disappointed.
“Come, my dear fellow,” he said, “let us sit down. Take a glass of sherry, sir. And you, too, Miss Hayter.”
Kezia declined the sherry but let herself be guided to a seat next to Mr. Donovan. The captain was on her other side. If he did not make conversation, Mr. Donovan was certain to do so. He would be an entertaining neighbor, she knew. She was so relieved not to be sitting next to Mr. Davies that she almost confessed this aloud.
Three young sailors came in, carrying china plates laden with roast mutton, potatoes, peas and gravy, which they set before each diner.
Mr. Donovan was asking questions almost as soon as the mutton was in front of them.
“Will the nautical life suit you, Miss Hayter? Have you ever been away from England before? How will your family fare without you, do you think?”
Kezia had seen Mr. Donovan in the company of the women belowdecks and knew he was the sort of person to be interested in everyone. Because he was so amiable, those who spoke to him were friendly in response.
“I shall miss my brothers and my sister, of course,” she said. “But they have one another, and I shall write to them.”
“How many were you? Are you the eldest?” Mr. Donovan went on.
“There’s no stopping my dear friend James,” said Captain Ferguson, turning toward Kezia and almost smiling. “He’ll continue until he’s extracted every ounce of information he requires. And he is the most inquisitive of men, I assure you.”
“I have no objection.” Kezia turned to the captain. “I’m resolved to answer every one of his questions about me and then he will have none left for the rest of the voyage.”
“She has you there, James.” Captain Ferguson laughed, and Kezia noticed how his laughter transformed his features. Is he handsome? she asked herself, as she cut into a potato.
Mr. Donovan said: “To be sure, I’ll be listening eagerly to any words that come from Miss Hayter.”
Kezia swallowed her mouthful, put down her knife and fork on the plate and smiled at Mr. Donovan and the rest of the company, who had stopped talking among themselves and seemed ready to listen to her. It came to her suddenly that her presence on the ship was most unusual for these men. They’d never considered such a strange thing as a matron before.
“My father died when I was six, sir,” she said. “My sister, Henrietta, is four years older than I am, and I have three younger brothers: Robert, George and John. My cousin, George Hayter, is a painter in the court of our queen.”
“Indeed,” said Captain Ferguson. “Mrs. Fry told us so. The creator of the fine portrait of our monarch painted shortly after the Coronation. We are honored to have such a well-connected person on board the Rajah.”
“And your mother?” Mr. Donovan’s curiosity had not been sated. “Will she not miss you?”
“That I doubt, sir,” said Kezia, raising her eyebrows in surprise at his directness. “She and I are . . . Well, she has much to occupy her without worrying about me.” She asked then for the salt, though the meal had been salted enough, simply to distract the man. She had no intention of explaining to anyone the intricacies of her dealings with her mother. I know my own feelings for her, she thought. God probably does, too, and is tearing out His beard in despair at the distance between us. None of this, she was sure, was anyone else’s business. She ate the rest of her dinner in silence, smiling pleasantly when anyone glanced in her direction.
“I believe,” said Mr. Donovan, turning to her suddenly, “that Molly Forbes ran right up to you before you embarked. I’m sorry for that. I hope you weren’t too frightened. She was a poor creature, and it was my duty to put her ashore. I don’t think she would have harmed you. More noise than malice, I think.”
“I wasn’t in the least frightened, sir,” Kezia said untruthfully. She had made up her mind to show as little fear as possible on the voyage. These men would be too quick to call it a woman’s weakness. “I was concerned only for her welfare.”
“Most commendable, Miss Hayter,” said Mr. Donovan. “That does you great credit. I, too, find it hard to refuse anyone a chance at a better life, but it’s my duty to take only those women in passable health on such a long journey. A wayward passenger unbalances the whole company. My work and yours, and the comfort of the transported women, were in my mind—how best to achieve harmony on this ship. I’ve had to send only a few ashore this time, for they were too severely deranged to benefit from transportation.”
“Though perhaps the insane would profit from being far away from their more rational fellows,” said Mr. Davies. “I believe that the asylums in England are very crowded.”
At that moment, the three serving sailors arrived to clear away the plates. Once they had left, Kezia excused herself from the company.
“I will accompany you, Miss Hayter,” said Captain Ferguson. He stood up and waited for her to join him at the cabin door. She had not expected his attention and found herself blushing. What would they say to one another as they walked along to her cabin? He picked up a small lantern, which was standing on a sideboard, to light their way.
“I bid you good night, gentlemen,” said Kezia, turning to address the men still gathered around the table. A chorus of “Good night” followed them
out of the cabin.
As they walked along, Isaac Margrove ran up to them. “Captain, sir,” he said, “you’re wanted on the quarterdeck, I fear.”
Captain Ferguson turned to Kezia. “Isaac will go with you to your cabin. Good night, Miss Hayter. My apologies . . .” He moved from foot to foot, not sure what to say. “I hope you’ve enjoyed . . . I’ve enjoyed this evening. It’s been . . . very pleasant. But I’m needed. So sorry, Miss Hayter. Good night.”
“Good night to you, sir.”
He was almost out of sight before Kezia realized she hadn’t thanked him, and felt irritated with herself. He will probably not even have noticed, she thought, which irritated her even more.
Isaac was not tongue-tied in her presence. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Matron. I hope you’re well settled.”
“Thank you, Isaac, yes,” Kezia said. “I’m feeling quite at home.”
“It’s good to have a matron on board. We’re mightily proud to have such a thing on the Rajah. Not had one before. Not ever on any ship I’ve sailed on.”
They had reached the cabin and Isaac placed the lantern carefully on the chest of drawers. “Good night to you, Matron,” he said. “And give a care to the lantern. Fire’s the worst of all hazards on board ship, I’m sure you know.”
“Thank you. I’ll take great care. Will you be safe making your way in the dark?”
He laughed. “Bless you, Matron, I know every single timber of the Rajah, every one. I could walk the decks and holds and even climb the rigging with my eyes shut! Don’t trouble your head for me.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Kezia smiled at him. “I’m most grateful for your assistance, Isaac.”
Kezia had never before changed her clothes in such a confined space. Every movement in her little cabin took much longer than she expected, but at last she was in her nightgown with her pink shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She considered her dress, neatly laid over the back of a small chair. She’d pushed her shoes under it, her stockings rolled up and tucked into them, and now she wondered how the convict women, lying very close to one another belowdecks, would manage to keep their belongings tidy and, more than that, clean. Each group would have to organize washing clothes and themselves, or the voyage would be of some discomfort to every nose on the ship. Kezia determined to raise the matter with someone . . . perhaps Mr. Donovan, who was, after all, a doctor and would not be shocked by having to think about ladies’ garments, washed or otherwise.
