‘You’ll be going home with your mates,’ Jim said cheerfully. ‘So buck up now, and let’s see that pretty smile.’
Mary wondered what this pint-sized sailor with red hair had between his ears, for however kindly he was, he appeared not to see the gravity of her situation. Charlotte was very sick with fever, and they were going home to England for Mary to be hanged and Charlotte orphaned. Could he really believe she ought to see the last leg of the journey as some kind of party?
‘Are you always so jolly?’ she asked, hoping he wouldn’t note the sarcasm in her tone.
‘Jolly Jim, that’s what me mam used to call me,’ he laughed, clearly taking it as a compliment. ‘Now, you’d better get your things together ’cos I reckon we’ll be going aboard the Gorgon very soon.’
It could have taken less than a second for Mary to gather together her few belongings. But she spun it out, examining each and every item, even though they had no value. A blue cotton dress, given to her in Kupang. The length of brightly coloured cotton from which she had intended to make another dress for Charlotte, but instead used to wrap Emmanuel in when he was in hospital. She held it to her face, hoping it still smelled of him, but that was gone now, just as he was, and the colours were faded from the many times she’d washed it. A string of blue wooden beads given to her by James Martin in Kupang. A lock of Emmanuel’s blond hair, tucked into a folded piece of brown paper. The blanket Watkin Tench had given her here in Cape Town, for Charlotte.
It had been white and fluffy then, now it was brown with age, so threadbare it resembled a cobweb, but just holding it brought back many memories of both her babies. There were a couple of pretty shells, picked up on the beach in Kupang, and finally the bag holding sweet tea leaves.
She didn’t really know why she’d held on to them all this time. They were the last of those she’d picked back in the colony. They were brown and crackly now, and she doubted they had any flavour left. But she couldn’t throw them away, they too held good memories. She could see herself sitting by the fire with Will outside their hut, sipping at the hot tea as they planned their future. That tea had kept hunger at bay, it had warmed them when they were cold, comforted them when everything looked black.
She would put on the blue dress, for even if it was ragged, it was clean. She’d worn it all the time at the hospital in Batavia. She wished she still had the pink dress and the smart boots, or even her shawl and sun bonnet, as they would have made her feel a whole lot better going aboard the new ship. But if she hadn’t sold them, they might not be alive now.
Charlotte had even fewer possessions, just a little shift and her colourful dress, now faded to just a blur of pastels, the stitching coming apart on the seams. She had stopped complaining about wearing the plain grey one back in the hospital. Now Mary came to think of it, she hadn’t complained about anything since then – not the lack of food and water, or even when she was taken sick.
Mary glanced down at her. She was lying on the bench where they slept, curled up like a small dog, using her two hands as a pillow. Her face was pale and drawn, she was pitifully thin, and her eyes looked haunted.
‘It will be better on the new ship,’ Mary said, smoothing back her dark curls from her face. ‘You’ll get well again.’
Charlotte merely sighed. It was the sound of disbelief, and it hurt Mary more than a sharp retort.
Jim Cartwright was right about which ship they were going home on, but wrong that they would go to it immediately. They sat at anchor for over two weeks. The crew went ashore, but Mary was kept aboard. She wasn’t put in chains again, but she was locked back in the hold with Charlotte, and even refused a couple of hours a day on deck for fresh air and exercise.
Daily, Charlotte became weaker, burning up with fever, and all Mary could do was bathe her, try to get her to drink, and curse a system which would allow an innocent child to suffer such cruelty.
Carrying Charlotte, who was barely conscious, Mary staggered up the gang-plank of the Gorgon, too weak even to respond to the sound of English voices.
Jim had told her the Gorgon had come from Port Jackson, and that the whole ship was filled with plants, shrubs, animal skins and even a couple of captured kangaroos. He’d been impatient to see these wonders for himself. But Mary was more intent on being reunited with her fellow deserters, as they were now labelled, than concerning herself with whether there would be anyone else on board that she knew.
She was dizzy with fever and the heat. Shouting, thumping, squeaking and banging bombarded her ears, and her limbs ached intolerably. The glare of the sunshine on the water hurt her eyes, and the smells of spice, fish and human sweat made her feel nauseous.
The dizziness suddenly grew far worse as she stepped off the gang-plank on to the deck, which was crowded with people and boxes. Her legs felt as if they were made of rubber and, afraid she would drop Charlotte, she stopped, leaned against a packing case and closed her eyes for a moment to gain her equilibrium. Then she heard someone calling her name.
The voice was so familiar, but in her befuddled state she couldn’t place it. She opened her eyes, but everything was a blur.
‘Are you sick, Mary?’ she heard the voice say as if from a great way off. ‘Let me take Charlotte.’
She could only suppose she fainted, for the next thing she knew she was lying down on the deck and someone was dabbing at her forehead with a wet cloth.
‘Charlotte!’ she called out in alarm, trying to sit up.
‘She’s being taken care of,’ a man said. ‘Drink this.’
The drink was rum, and the man offering it to her had to be a sailor, judging by his white ducks and shirt. He had curly fair hair and a sun-blistered face. Mary was in a patch of shade now, and her vision seemed to have returned to normal.
‘Who was that who spoke to me and took Charlotte?’ she asked.
‘That ’ud be Cap’n Tench,’ the man said.
‘Tench!’ she exclaimed. ‘Watkin Tench?’
‘That’s right, me lovely,’ he said with a broad grin. ‘And I take it you’re the one he’s been fretting about since we got told you was to sail ’ome with us?’
Mary lay on a bunk, Charlotte asleep beside her. She was bewildered, unable to make up her mind if she was really in a cabin, complete with open porthole, or if she was dreaming.
The cabin certainly looked real enough, very small with just the bunk, a kind of washstand, and a couple of hooks on the wall for clothes. Her bundle was on the washstand, beside it a pitcher of water. Through the porthole she could see barnacle-covered timbers, which had to be the sides of the wharf.
If it was a dream it was a lovely one, for she seemed to think the sailor who gave her rum had said Watkin Tench was on this ship.
She certainly hadn’t dreamed about the rum, she could still taste it in her mouth. But maybe she’d drunk it too fast, for the events after that weren’t clear at all. Could Tench have been one of the two men she’d heard talking by her? She was sure that one of them said, ‘She’s been through enough. I want her put in a cabin with her child. That way at least they’ll stand a chance.’
Mary lifted herself up a little to look at Charlotte. Her breathing was laboured, her skin felt hot and dry and she was so thin every bone in her small body stood out. It didn’t look to Mary as if she stood a chance. She had the same look Emmanuel had towards the end, and Mary had become all too familiar with the signs of approaching death during her time at the Batavia hospital to believe it was mere coincidence.
A rapping on the door woke Mary later. ‘Come in,’ she said weakly, surprised that anyone would treat an escaped convict with such deference.
The door opened, and there was Watkin Tench, looking exactly the way she remembered, slender, lean-faced, his dark eyes full of concern. Tears filled her eyes. So it hadn’t been a dream! He had come back into her life to rescue her.
‘Mary!’ he exclaimed, and moved closer to her, leaving the door open. ‘You cannot imagine my shock to hear you wer
e travelling home on this ship. It is the most extraordinary coincidence.’
To Mary it was far more than coincidence. Only God could have worked this miracle.
‘I thought I was dreaming when I heard your voice,’ she admitted. ‘Then I found myself in this cabin.’
‘You have Captain Parker to thank for that,’ Tench said. ‘He is a good man, and when he heard the circumstances and saw how ill both you and Charlotte were, he gave the order. The surgeon will be along to see you both soon, and much as I want to know everything that has happened since we last saw each other, you must rest.’
‘Do you know that Emmanuel and Will died?’ she asked.
He nodded gravely. ‘I am so sorry, Mary. I wish I had the right words to comfort you in your loss.’
The sincerity in his voice made her cry. In the past he had comforted her in so many different ways, for so many different reasons, and to find he was close by again when she needed a friend so badly was almost too much to bear.
‘You were always such a good friend,’ she said through her tears. ‘And here you are again.’
‘I missed you a great deal after you’d gone from Sydney Cove,’ he said. ‘It just wasn’t the same place without you. You can’t imagine the rumpus you caused.’
Mary tried to control herself and wiped away her tears. ‘James, William and the others, are they here too?’ she asked.
‘James Martin, Bill Allen, Nat Lilly and Sam Broome are,’ he said.
The hesitancy in his voice alerted her that something was wrong. ‘And the other three?’ she asked.
He looked away for a moment, as if afraid to admit the truth.
‘They’re dead, aren’t they?’ She slumped back on to her pillow in utter dejection. ‘Was it the fever?’
He nodded. ‘William Moreton and Samuel Bird died soon after leaving Batavia,’ he said, reaching out to touch her arm in sympathy. ‘Jamie Cox jumped overboard in the Straits of Sunda. Maybe he was trying to escape, but it’s more likely he was maddened by the fever.’
Mary looked at Tench in horror. ‘Oh no,’ she croaked out, ‘not Jamie!’
Jamie had become like a member of her family, he’d shared so much with her and Will. On the Dunkirk and then the Charlotte and in Sydney Cove he’d been Will’s shadow. He had always seemed more of a boy than a man, even when he shared a hut with Sarah. He had a sweet innocence about him that set him apart from the other male prisoners. It was horrible to think of him ending his life in such a way.
‘The other four are in poor shape,’ Tench went on, ‘but I believe they will soon recover. James told me everything about the escape, and that they all owe their lives to you. They send good wishes to you and Charlotte. They hope once we sail they’ll be able to see you both.’
Mary turned her head towards Charlotte who lay asleep in the crook of her arm. ‘I don’t think she’ll live to see them, let alone England,’ she whispered.
Tench didn’t reply, and when she turned her face to look at him, she saw tears in his eyes.
‘Fate has treated you extraordinarily harshly,’ he said in a low voice, ‘and you have been so very brave. A line should be drawn now. You have suffered enough.’
‘Did I hear right?’ she asked. ‘Did that sailor call you Captain Tench?’
He touched her face gently. ‘How like you, Mary, to think of someone else at such a bad time for you. Yes, I’m Captain Tench now. I’m just glad my higher rank gets me a few more privileges, like this cabin for you.’
And with that he left suddenly, and Mary hugged Charlotte tighter and cried. Would Tench ask why they escaped? Or would he understand?
She had left New South Wales with eight healthy men and two children. Maybe she hadn’t known some of the men very well then, and some she’d grown to like more than others. Yet they’d become a family, they had pulled together and made it to Kupang. But now there were only four left: cherubic Nat, funny James, stalwart Sam and pugnacious Bill. Half their number gone. And one of the children. Now Charlotte was mortally ill too, and the remainder would be hanged.
She had prided herself on being the mastermind behind the escape. In fact she’d led them all to their deaths.
The Gorgon sailed out of Cape Town on 5 April. Mary had her porthole open, and heard the shouted farewells from the wharf, but she was once again bathing Charlotte with cool water and didn’t even look out. Her only interest was in making her daughter well again.
As the ship got underway, Mary found herself treated with the utmost kindness. Food and water were brought to her, the ship’s surgeon visited her each day, and she was allowed up on deck at any time.
There were many familiar faces aboard other than Tench’s, for they were all people who had been in the penal colony and were now returning home after their term of duty was up. Among them was Lieutenant Ralph Clark, the hypocritical man who had spoken to the convict women as though they were dirt under his feet, yet took up with one himself, and there were dozens of Marines with their wives and families.
Mary was far too despondent to talk to any of these people and ask how old friends like Sarah and Bessie had fared after she left. She could see a kind of irony in her situation. Had she become a lag wife to Tench or any of the officers, instead of marrying Will, she would have been left behind when they sailed. A widow here, or a widow there, whichever road she’d taken would have ended the same.
Mary doubted Ralph Clark had any sympathy with her – when she ran into him on deck he pointedly looked the other way – but everyone else was kind. Captain Parker’s wife visited her once, bringing her a green and white striped dress, and a night-shirt for Charlotte. She was cool, but then Mary didn’t expect a woman of her status to be friendly. It was enough that she’d overcome her fear of the fever to bring clothes.
Mary was gradually recovering her own health, feeling a little better each day, but Charlotte continued to sink. Some days she would swallow a little soup or mashed-up fruit, and stay awake long enough for Mary to sing to her or tell her some stories, but at other times she was delirious and unable even to sip water.
It became hotter and hotter in the next couple of weeks, and Mary was told by the surgeon that other children belonging to the Marines were sick. By Mary’s twenty-seventh birthday at the end of April, five children had died and were buried at sea.
Tench came whenever he could, and his deep concern for Charlotte was very touching. He often brought messages from James Martin and the other three men, who were just as anxious about her.
‘Kiss her for me,’ Tench said, reading from one of James’s notes. ‘Tell her all her uncles are waiting to see her.’
‘Are they well?’ Mary asked. Half of her wanted to see her friends, but the other half was afraid in case they started on about Will again. But as she didn’t like to leave Charlotte even for a minute or two she had the perfect excuse.
‘Much recovered,’ Tench said with a smile. ‘Eating like pigs. James teases and flirts with the ladies. He is as much of a success with them as he was with the women back in Sydney. He is also talking about writing his memoirs, which should make interesting reading. Bill plays cards with the crew, Sam and Nat are always dozing.’
Mary smiled. It was good to hear they were being treated well too. She was also very glad they were able to put aside what lay ahead for them in England, if only for a few weeks.
During the night of 5 May, Charlotte finally gave up her long struggle and died in her mother’s arms.
Mary continued to hold and rock her small body for over an hour, sobbing out her anguish. She wound her fingers into the dark curls so much like her own, and looked back at all the milestones in her short life. Her birth on the Charlotte, her christening, first teeth and wobbly steps. But it was the time in Kupang Mary lingered most on, for there Charlotte had been truly happy, well fed for once, as free as any other child, and adored by everyone who met her.
At least now she wouldn’t have to suffer the loss of her mother when she was hanged
, or be subjected to the miseries of an orphanage or workhouse. She would join her little brother in heaven.
Yet even though Mary could claim a dozen good reasons why she ought to be glad her daughter died at sea, her heart felt smashed into a thousand pieces. Everything Mary had done had been for her. Charlotte gave her reason to go on, and without her there was nothing.
Charlotte’s body was committed to the deep that afternoon with almost the entire ship’s company, the passengers and the other convicts looking on.
It was Sunday, and raining, and Mary stood bare-headed and stony-faced as Captain Parker led the prayers. She had sewn Charlotte’s body into the piece of sackcloth herself, and cried the last of her tears over it. She was empty now, nothing left, and she couldn’t understand why her own heart kept on beating so stubbornly.
Even as the small package slipped over the side, she didn’t cry out or turn to James or Sam for comfort. She wanted to join her daughter in a watery grave. Yet she knew if she tried to run forward and throw herself in, someone would try to stop her, and failure would make her feel even lower.
Agnes Tippet, one of the Marines’ wives, watched Mary walk away from the service, and turned to the women next to her. ‘She didn’t care one bit,’ she said in shocked tones. ‘No tears, nothing. I’ve never seen anyone bury a child with such a hard face.’
Watkin Tench heard Agnes’ remark. ‘Be quiet, you foolish woman,’ he snapped at her, incensed. ‘You have no real idea what she’s been through, or how she feels inside. Count yourself lucky your children are well, and don’t make judgements on another.’
Remember Me Page 31
