by Hope Adams
She took out her Bible and read, as was her custom, the passage prescribed for the day. Then she knelt beside the bunk and prayed, as she did every night, aware of the side-to-side motion of the Rajah, the enormous depth of water under the ship. Ever since she was a small child, Kezia had imagined a list of those she prayed for as if it were a register written on paper, and as she mentioned each name, she imagined herself crossing it off with a stroke of her pen. Now she added the women in her charge to those she must pray for. First came Papa, then her brothers and sister, her friends, especially dearest Mrs. Pryor, the women she had met during the course of her work for the Ladies’ Committee and, last, Mama.
When had she realized that her mother had no particular fondness for her? As a very small child, Kezia had been aware that Mama’s smile seemed to appear more readily when her gaze fell on Henrietta or the boys. For a long time, she had thought the fault was hers: Kezia, you are disobedient. Kezia, you are willful. Kezia, take your head out of that book. Kezia, go to sleep at once. I’m heartily sick of this story of nightmares.
A litany of complaints against her seemed to have issued from her mother’s lips for as long as she could remember. Once, when she was about twelve and Henrietta sixteen, she’d asked her sister directly.
“Do you think Mama likes me, Henrietta?”
They’d been in the parlor, sitting on either side of the fire, sewing. Neither the devil nor anyone else would have found idle hands in the Hayter household.
Henrietta looked astonished. “Like you? Why, you silly goose, of course she does. She loves you. Every mother loves her children, does she not? Why d’you ask such a foolish question?”
“I don’t know,” Kezia answered. “I daresay I am being foolish, but . . .”
“But what?” Henrietta put down her handiwork and stared at Kezia, as if her sister had grown a second head.
It was hard to put into words, but Kezia tried. “She never holds me. She hasn’t kissed me for—for a very long time.”
“You’re talking nonsense, Kezia. She always kisses us good night.”
Was it worth arguing? Kezia wondered helplessly. Did Henrietta really not notice the ritual at bedtime? After saying good night to the boys, their mother came into their room, sat on Henrietta’s bed, talked of one thing and another, stood up, then leaned over and kissed Henrietta affectionately. She patted the end of Kezia’s bed as she passed it on her way out of the room, saying as she went, “Good night, Kezia, my dear.”
My mother’s love, Kezia thought, is like a lantern. She imagined it passing briefly over her head from time to time and leaving her behind in the dark, moving on to shine its light over others. She would turn to the wall and stare at it, every single night, willing herself to see nothing beyond its rough surface. Even during the summer, she felt cold in her bed.
Kezia sighed. Henrietta hadn’t been attending, that was clear, and, really, why should she? The rhythm of the house flowed on and on, and only Kezia was keeping count of both rebuffs and kisses.
“She doesn’t talk to me, as she does to you and the boys,” Kezia went on. “Have you not noticed?”
“You are being more than fanciful, Kezia. I fear you’re being petty.”
Kezia thought, I’m not being petty at all, and stabbed her needle with renewed energy into the cotton of the pillowcase she was embroidering. Nevertheless, it was true. Her mother hardly ever found anything to discuss with her younger daughter. She gave instructions, which Kezia obeyed to the best of her ability, but she never chatted. Kezia and her mama never laughed at anything together; they did not exchange interesting gossip, or discuss important matters, such as what the younger daughter might reasonably do with her own life.
Kezia tried to turn back to her prayers. I must be anxious tonight, Lord, she thought. Forgive me, I will be more attentive now. Once she began to think too carefully about her mother, it was hard to forgive her entirely. She sighed. “And, Lord,” she whispered aloud, “look kindly on Captain Ferguson and the crew of this ship that they may take us safely to our destination. Also, the women who are seeking to make a new life on the other side of the world. Send them courage and determination, and let them be drawn into the comfort of your love.”
She stood up and went to turn down the lantern. The flame guttered and died. The only brightness came now from the lanterns on deck. She listened to the timbers creaking and felt the weight of the ship, and wondered how it was that this great collection of men and women, in a gigantic wooden chest of sorts, didn’t sink immediately to the bottom of the sea, how they were borne up by the mass of water under their vessel.
* * *
* * *
Early the next morning, Kezia stood on deck and gazed out at the ocean, noticing that the horizon was no more than a vaguely drawn line in the distance. The waves, quite lively and white-crested in the strong wind, were chasing one another till they broke against the sides of the Rajah.
“You have found your sea legs more speedily than most, madam. Good morning to you.” Captain Ferguson was standing beside her at the rail.
“Good morning, Captain. Yes, I found it surprising at first to be moving up and down and from side to side so much, but I’m grown used to it now. And I find I’m too occupied to concern myself much with the motion of the ship.”
“That’s the very means by which we train the youngest of our crew. They come on board new, homesick and sometimes frightened, though they’d never show it, and we set them to tasks at once—send them up the rigging, give them boxes of supplies to haul about, have them running up and down so fast that any seasickness is soon forgotten. They are too exhausted to be ill, I assure you. There’s always work to be done on a ship, of course. And I see you’ve already started yours.” He indicated the groups of women walking in twos and threes along the deck.
Kezia nodded, pleased that her plan for the women’s welfare, her request that they should have exercise every day, had met with the approval of both the captain and Mr. Donovan. “I think it’s important to walk about in the fresh air as much as possible. Perhaps”—she smiled at the captain—“when we sail into calmer waters and warmer temperatures, the women might be allowed to sit outside on deck to work. To do their stitching?”
“We’ll see . . . we’ll see. Perhaps you and I may also walk together from time to time.”
The word “why” nearly escaped from her lips but Kezia said simply, “Of course.”
Kezia glanced at his profile without moving her head. Captain Ferguson had seemed to her a little formal in his manner, and somewhat tongue-tied in her presence. Could he really be interested in her business? Why had he suggested that they walk together?
“Then let us start as we mean to go on,” he said, and held out his arm. She was surprised and a little nervous as she took it. We might be promenading along the seafront at Brighton, she thought, as they began to walk along the deck together.
“Tell me a little about your work, Miss Hayter,” he said. “You have made a list of women who might help you in a project you’ve devised. You told me so at dinner last night.”
“I have,” said Kezia. “What I did not say last night was that this project has been in my mind for some time.”
“Indeed,” said the captain. “When did you first think of it?”
Kezia looked first up at the sails and then at her feet. “Before anything else,” she said, “I must speak of Mrs. Pryor. She is like a mother to me in many ways. She’s an important member of the Ladies’ Committee, but I’ve known her since I first began to work at Newgate.”
How to explain to the captain the joy she’d felt when Elizabeth Pryor had begun to pay attention to her? When she had recognized in Mrs. Pryor a kindred spirit? Someone who understood her better by far than her own mother. A woman who could see that more might be done with a needle and silk than simply making samplers or embroideries. Mrs. Pryor understo
od that there was art in the placing of this fabric next to that, in the disposition of colors near or far from one another.
“She and I both agree with Mrs. Fry,” she said, “that a shared piece of work has great value. All work you do for yourself is good, but when you work together to make something for another, or for others, why, then, the mind of many is bent on the same outcome and this forms . . .” Kezia stopped, not knowing how to convey precisely what she believed. Fortunately, the captain interrupted her.
“A bond between strangers. A common aim. Of course, also a chance for friendships to flourish.”
Kezia smiled. “Those are my sentiments exactly.” She said nothing of her desire to educate the women, to lead them to better things. Neither did she mention her intention of beginning or ending each session with a verse from a hymn. Perhaps by the time they reached Van Diemen’s Land the women would be accustomed to asking for a blessing on their work.
Kezia knew, from her work with prisoners at Millbank, that certain confessions would come her way as they sewed together, from women eager to unburden themselves. The stitching seemed to allow them to speak without looking directly at anyone else, and she’d observed that once a woman had spoken, it was easy for others to follow her example. Here on the Rajah they would do so more than ever. There were fewer people to overhear them telling of their hopes, fears and sorrows.
“I’ll do my best to help every one of my needlewomen,” she said at last.
“I’m sure you will, Miss Hayter. I must leave you for the moment, I’m afraid, but we’ll walk and talk again.”
He bowed briefly in Kezia’s direction and moved toward the stern. She had been wondering what to say in answer to his remark and was relieved he hadn’t stayed to hear her. She was looking forward to their next meeting but it would have been excessively familiar to say so.
Aboard the Rajah, 6 April 1841
Dearest Sister,
I am a seasoned sailor after only one night at sea! I wish that were true, but it is not. I find it strange beyond anything to have no firm surface beneath my feet. Even in calm weather, I’m aware of constant movement. A sheet of water stretches from where I am to the horizon on every side and it makes me fearful, I can’t deny it. Everything that ties us to the land is gone. No buildings, no trees, no other people, just miles and miles of shining water reaching, it would seem, to infinity. Captain Ferguson is very adept at settling his crew and all of us. If I had to find a word to describe him, it would be “reassuring.” I walked with him on deck today, and while I was in his company, I could have imagined myself taking a turn round Richmond Park. I felt no more qualms about our ship being alone on the ocean . . .
Kezia put aside her pen. It was true that she felt the ship was safe under Captain Ferguson’s command. She’d thought of him as rather shy, his shyness expressed as stiff politeness, but today he’d been more . . . she sought the right word . . . ordinary. She was looking forward to their next conversation. She picked up her pen again, resolved to paint a picture for her sister of the convict quarters and the women in her charge.
12
THEN
Cotton patch: narrow stripes in mustard yellow, white, black and turquoise, with each stripe printed with lines of flowers in contrasting colors
April 1841
HATTIE
Miss Hayter had come down to speak to them again. She’d instructed them about washing, cooking and sleeping, and was now coming to the end of her speech.
“Captain Ferguson is a good man and I’ll ask him to allow you to have some exercise and fresh air. We’ll do as much of our sewing on deck as we can because we’ll need light.” She looked at the space around her as though she was seeing it for the first time. “It’s very dark down here. We’re now on the high seas, and I ask you to pray with me for a good voyage and safe harbor in Van Diemen’s Land.”
The women closed their eyes and bent their heads, as Miss Hayter went on: “Oh, Lord, hear the fervent prayers of your daughters gathered here, about to embark upon a long voyage at sea. Bless our labors, and keep us in good health and spirits that we may have the strength to do your work.” She searched in her bag, found her Bible and opened it. She covered her mouth with her hand and cleared her throat. Someone sniggered and there was ssshing and giggling from others. Miss Hayter raised her voice a little and said: “I’ll end with a psalm:
They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters;
These see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.
I hope to God, thought Hattie, that we don’t see too many wonders. Whales or sea monsters or giant birds.
For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof.
They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble.
Hattie prayed sincerely for no storms. What might happen to the Rajah if there were storms? Would Bertie be frightened? She had never been in a storm at sea but perhaps she, too, would be terrified.
He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.
That sounded more hopeful . . . a calm after the storm. Pray to God for that, Hattie thought, and glanced at Miss Hayter, who had lifted her face from the book and was looking at them all now, with her head held up. That must mean she knows it by heart, Hattie decided. Must have said these words a thousand times.
Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired haven.
Oh, that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men!
Hattie gazed at the listening women. Many of them looked poorer and more unfortunate than she did. More dejected. Most were thieves like her. They’d stolen to feed their children, and she had stolen the clothes off children’s backs. They were petty criminals, but there were others who’d been born to crime: cheats and the children of thieves. I was respectable once, she told herself.
Before she’d fallen pregnant with Bertie, she’d been a maid in a good house full of rich people, who were her masters, and she’d spent her days attending to the clothes of the women. She had mended small tears with such fine stitches that you’d never have guessed at the damage. She hemmed and tacked, pinned and unpinned, and all the while she was well treated by the family she worked for, the Whitings.
She was especially well treated by the men, if you could call being pawed and touched and grabbed from behind “well treated.” Hattie had nothing but scorn for Mr. John Whiting, the father of the house, and his two sons, Christopher and Jeremiah, but she knew that yielding to their desires was necessary. Out on the street, she thought, that’s where I would have been if I hadn’t, with not a penny piece to show for my work. And in truth, some of their attentions had not been unpleasant. She’d liked young Jeremiah well enough, and even though she was dismissed when her pregnancy became visible, she could not, ever, bemoan the fact that Bertie was here beside her. If she had not borne her son . . . well, that was a thought Hattie never followed to its logical end. Even though what she’d planned had not come to pass as she expected, even though his birth had led directly to her present plight, Bertie was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
She thought of him as consolation for an older loss that still weighed heavy on her heart if it came into her thoughts. When it did, Hattie had grown used to fixing her mind on happier things, for otherwise her days would be spent in longing and misery. And that, she often told herself, would do neither herself nor Bertie any good.
She gazed across the wooden planks of the floor to where small groups of women were talking, arranging themselves to be near their friends. The ones who’d come from the same prison had ready-formed alliances and cliques. The Newgate Nannies, for instance, had already settled themselves comfortably in a dark corner. They were older than many of the w
omen, and dab hands at spotting a chance to make a penny. Margery Selwood, known as Selwood, had a wicked tongue in her head, and the others parroted her every word. Agnes Dwyer, called Dwyer, was heavy and had one eye that looked at you askance and a tattoo on her arm: five dots arranged in a pattern that told of a past as a prostitute. She was the most feared of the three, and there were few who would dare to cross her. Tabitha Brown was the weakest—she had followed the other two. Spying was her chief talent. She listened. She moved among the prisoners without causing alarm and was thus able to overhear much that benefited the other two. The three, who did not mind their reputation but rather encouraged and reveled in it, were quick to point out to younger prisoners the advantages of keeping in their favor. They gossiped ceaselessly. When she was in Newgate, Hattie had seen how they traded in secrets, took advantage of the weaker warders and lorded it over the other prisoners in a variety of ways. She had made a point of being obliging to them at all times. She’d been in Newgate just a few days when she’d caught Tabitha’s eye.
“You’ve fallen a long way, and no mistake,” Tabitha said, peering at Hattie and picking up a strand of her hair. She rubbed it between her fingers and grinned. “That’s treasure, that is,” she whispered, leaning closer. “Pure gold.”
