by Peter McAra
‘Watch out for those sailor boys, Meg.’
‘No. Hey there, sailor boys, watch out for Meg!’
As the vessel slipped away from the dock, every soul on ship and shore stood silent. The layer of false bonhomie wrought by the crowd on the dock evaporated like a rising mist before the ship was a cable’s length from the land. Nothing was left but the cold finality of their parting. The realisation smote the consciousness of everyone on board like the sound of a single drumbeat on a still night. Tears beaded down many a cheek.
Soon the huddle of people on the shore grew indistinct to the straining, tear-misted eyes of the voyagers. The sharper-eyed convicts saw some members of the dockside crowd making their way back to their business on shore, not respecting their friends sufficiently to wait till they were lost to sight round a bend in the river. The ship gained way as it made the middle of the stream and caught the outgoing tide. The landscape slid by; an ungainly assemblage of grey docks, hulks, warehouses, chimney stacks, derelict buildings, the arching ribs of wrecks beached and decaying in the mud.
Eliza watched, thinking that every soul on board would be capturing this tableau in their minds, would remember it as the last they would see of London in their lifetimes. The ship, too, seemed to resent the parting, protesting by its slow progress that it was improper to send a portly matron on a six-month voyage to the end of the world, groaning to the gunwales with the discards of a violence-weary society.
Slowly, slowly, the ship drew away from the land. Eliza, watching the horizon, noticed that the ship had begun to dip slowly up and down in the calm water. The convicts on the deck were herded below.
‘Come, my fine beauties,’ Sam Thompson, the Chief Warder, called. ‘Look lively.’ He took a position beside the rail, making an effort to stand erect, pot belly straining at the buttons of his uniform. Clearly, he aimed to make an authoritarian first impression on the women who would be in his charge for the next six months.
‘And don’t expect no favours from me, my lovelies, nor my trusty lads. The captain of this ship be one of the old school. He don’t believe in these new-fangled notions of giving the prisoners feather beds and sweetmeats, spite of what you may have heard. This ship be an old ship, and we be used to the old ways. So get that under your bonnets afore you’re a minute older.’
The women jostled to be assigned berths near to their friends. Money was passed to warders to buy a favoured spot. This might be near a companionway, or an aisle where there was an illusion of privacy or a breath of air. The berths stood five deep on a deck, shelves in a chest of drawers built to store miserable humanity rather than clothes. Unhappy choices were made between top berths, with their claustrophobic closeness to the deck above, or the lower shelves which would bear the endless comings and goings of climbing feet for six months or more.
Eliza found herself three layers from the bottom, with Susannah in the berth below her. The berth was edged with low planks and held a mattress filled with straw. An iron cup dangled from a nail by each berth. Eliza took this to be for rations of gruel. A bare twelve inches of space separated each berth from the one above, requiring some adroitness in getting in and out. Eliza eased her spare body in without undue trouble. When her head touched the headboard, her feet reached the far end of the berth. She tried folding her legs this way and that, hitting her head and knees on the berth above.
She heard older and less supple women cursing as they strained to squeeze into their berths, hobbled by leg-irons.
‘Cheer up, Betsy. Thou’ll be slenderer soon enough,’ one cheerful soul told her neighbour. Within minutes of this prophecy, the ship began to roll. In the hush which blanketed the dark space, the splat-splat of vomit landing on the deck began to punctuate the creak-creak-creak of the old ship. An acid smell choked the air. The stench was enough to trigger seemingly hundreds of other stomachs to eject their contents. Groans and retching fused into a dismal chorus. A thud announced a warder’s arrival.
‘My God! It stinks like the pits of hell down there,’ the warder called from the open hatch above. ‘At our chundering already are we, me beauties? Dinner is served.’ Groans from the stacked humanity sandwiched into the berths told Eliza that few souls would take up the warder’s invitation. ‘This be the rostered mealtime for your mess, so step lively. Bring your cups.’ The warder must have a sense of humour. Eliza was one of the few to climb from her berth and make her hesitant way to the food barrel guarded by two warders.
‘Bless me. Here’s a pretty one, Jem,’ the bearded warder smiled as he saw Eliza step forward to the barrel, cup in hand. She must keep away from his hands. ‘Give us a kiss, love,’ the other, a thin, clean-shaven man said. ‘And I’ll give thee two biscuits.’ She stood away from him and held out her cup.
One warder splashed a lump of salt beef into her cup, and the other held out two ship’s biscuits. She took one.
‘The biscuits will keep, my darlin’. It’s a long voyage,’ the clean-shaven one said. ‘Young for a fallen woman, aren’t ye. Methinks ye’ll grow up a little afore the voyage is done, me pretty.’ As she stepped aside to make way for the next convict, he caught a wisp of her golden hair, tugged at it.
Standing in the small space, jostled by the waiting women, Eliza ate the biscuit and part of the beef. She would save a portion of it for Susannah, who lay below in her berth, groaning and vomiting. Holding her cup, Eliza found her way to the water barrel. It was late evening. The lights of the land could be seen winking through the twilight. The fresh wind lifted her hair and she smelt the clean salt smell of the sea. She lingered by the barrel. A warder bore down on her. He smiled.
‘Hello, pretty lass. Let Sam Bentleigh be your friend, then.’ She skipped aside and descended through the hatch. In the dark, she heard Susannah groaning softly in her berth.
‘I brought you some food, Susannah. Though it’s poor stuff. Could you try it? A little food in the stomach gives you strength.’
‘No! God, no, child.’ Susannah whispered, her voice faint with seasickness. ‘Get it away from me! Let me die!’
Eliza put the cup in the corner of her berth and made her way to the privy. Already, not a day out from London, it was a loathsome experience. Two planks, spaced two handwidths apart, were suspended over the bilge to make a long seat. As the ship rolled, foul liquid slapped the sides of the hole. The movement pumped a stench up into the face of anyone sitting on the planks. What would it be like after six months?
Back at her berth, Eliza saw that Susannah was asleep. The food Eliza had stored in her berth was gone. She was glad she had taken her cup with her to the privy. She retraced her steps in the blackness, climbed the companionway, found the water barrel, and filled her cup. If Susannah woke, she would be desperately thirsty. Eliza made her perilous way back, contriving to save a goodly portion of the water as she clung to any support she could feel in the dark. Once back to her deck, she climbed into her berth. All about her were asleep.
As she lay down, she felt a rising nausea. Gripping the sides of her berth, she clenched her teeth. Sweat trickled down her temples. The nausea subsided. She changed position. It returned. She would lie still. Eventually she felt her grip relax, and knew sleep would visit her soon.
One day at sea had passed. There could be near two hundred more before the ordeal was over. She curled her fingers into her palm and thought of Harry. Blameless, sweet natured boy; God grant that he would never know of her suffering. Soon she would be half a world away from him — as far apart as it was possible to get on Planet Earth. And they would likely never see each other again. She let her tears flow. Would that in nights to come those tears might wash away her longing for him. That was as likely as the stars falling to earth, she told herself. How could any woman ever forget her first love?
Grey drizzling days crept by. The ship’s tossing became less noticeable as the convicts found their sea legs. In the wilder weather, it rolled frighteningly, spilling belongings onto the foul passageways between the berths. But mostly, the ship�
�s movements were tolerable. Freed of their seasickness, the women sat in groups, talking hour by hour. As they began to move about, the leg-irons cut into their ankles — all too effective in subjugating their wearers. A convict could walk while in irons, but with pain, and slowly. Some women developed ulcers on their ankles, and could not take a step without whimpering. Sometimes their friends carried them about the ship during the rostered times when movement was permitted.
Eliza, likely the youngest and healthiest on board, had not paid the toll that years of dissipation and disease had cost her sisters. Her ankles developed calluses which enabled her to walk, albeit painfully. She learned a skipping gait as she willed herself to walk about the cramped ship whenever she could. It would slow the muscle wastage she knew would come from giving in to the pain. While some succumbed, and spent most of their time in their berths, others seemed to keep almost well. As the weeks progressed, Eliza often saw a sailor take a woman against the ship’s rail in the dark of the night, lifting her skirts for the moments required for the act. Some of the women, paid in coin for the pleasure they had nonchalantly given, bought treats of dried fruit and maybe a swig of rum with their money.
‘Much good it’ll do ye if ye just sits on it, love,’ Poll Robinson said to Eliza one night as she lurched back to her berth. ‘Here’s a plum for thee, child. I’ve had plums, aye, and brandy and gold, just for half an hour round the barrel. And more’s there where that came from, lass.’ She eyed Eliza’s slender body and golden curls. ‘Ye don’t know how those guards lust after ye, child. They call thee the White Rosebud.’ At the sound of this exchange, Susannah snapped a reply from her sickbed.
‘Look at yon Poll, child,’ she addressed Eliza. ‘Wouldst have thyself look like her, and worse, think like her? Save thyself, Eliza, like the sweet child I know thee be.’
The conversation was an omen. A few evenings later, Eliza climbed to the deck to fetch a drink of water for herself. The night was warm to the point of discomfort.
‘Well, if it ain’t my little Rosebud.’ Eliza turned to meet the leering face of Jake Cowper.
‘Jake thinks he’s been sent by the angel Gabriel as a gift to women,’ Poll had said. ‘He’s put his hands on half the women on this ship already. And he won’t take no for an answer. He’s like a bull eyeing a meadow of cows.’
Jake’s voice was husky with lust. Eliza read his face and turned her shackled feet to flee. But not fast enough. Jake clasped her round the waist, pushed his spiky black beard into her face.
‘Give old Jake a little kiss, lass. T’will make the next move more fun for ye.’ Eliza struggled. He locked his arms round her, squeezing her harder the more she resisted. Then he wrapped a leg behind hers and pushed her to the deck. As he heaved his body to cover hers, he pinioned her with his arm and hip. In the dark, she sensed that he undid his belt buckle.
CHAPTER 17
‘A little struggle will make it sweeter for ye, child. I’ll warrant I’ll be your first. And good it’ll be for ye. Jake the Yard Long Snake, I’m called. Ye’ll count y’self lucky it were Jake as took you first.’
Eliza must think quickly. She kissed him on the lips as he lay over her, forcing her breath out of her. ‘Ah. So my little wench can’t wait,’ he gloated.
‘Wait, Jake. I have the curse. I’ll take off my rags. I’ll be quick.’ He stood. Eliza fussed with the skirt of her smock. Then, as the ship lurched, she dived past him, swung onto the companionway, and fell down the steps onto the deck below.
‘She-devil! I’ll have thee yet! Just wait.’ Jake called down at her. As she tripped, she felt the irons cut her leg. In the dark, she wiped a finger over her ankle, felt the wet, and tasted it. It was warm blood — a cheap price to pay to for her escape. She limped to her berth, and smothered her sobs in her sleeve. The other convicts would have made great sport of it if they’d heard her. She fingered the palm of her hand to remind herself of Harry’s naïve blood oath one more time, and fell asleep in the small hours.
A few days later, Susannah confided in her.
‘I’m with child, lass. That’s why I been so sick. It’s the gift I got from my gentleman. Cursed be the men that woo silly women, then use them and fling them onto the street like filth.’
Eliza knew that Susannah’s sickness was likely to spin into a vicious circle. She must have better food and care if the baby were to survive to full term. Each day that Susannah felt poorly, Eliza bought her food. The biscuits, the pease and an occasional chunk of salt beef were at best tasteless, and Susannah rarely ate a healthy portion. Knowing the risk she invited, Eliza one day told a warder about Susannah’s poor health. The man was a decent fellow, and spoke to the ship’s surgeon. He gave Eliza the cup of wine specially prescribed for the sick. She brought it to Susannah during their mess’s rostered time on deck. As the languid woman drank it, she changed magically. Her voice lifted and she stood unaided.
‘Lead me to the deck, lass,’ she ordered. Clearly, she felt no pain from her irons. She had stood at the barrel only minutes when a sailor passed. ‘Hello, sailor boy,’ she called. ‘Let’s me and thee have a little drink.’
‘Aye, that we will,’ said the sailor, grinning. ‘Hold hard for the twinkling of an eye, lass.’ He vanished and quickly reappeared with a half bottle of brandy. ‘A kiss will get the cork out, lass,’ he said. She kissed him with more spirit than Eliza had seen in Susannah since she had denounced men back in the Dorset cells. ‘Here, little lass. Take thy turn.’ He thrust the bottle at Eliza.
‘No, thank you sir. I don’t like brandy, sir,’ she said, wishing she was elsewhere. The sailor ignored her. He was hugging Susannah with the hand that held the bottle, and reaching beneath her skirts with the other. Eliza could see that his attention was elsewhere. She left quietly, picking up her chain and skipping back to her berth in the darkness. A long time later, Susannah joined her messmates, singing with drunken detachment.
‘A sovereign for my baby! A sovereign for my baby! And I’ll keep it where no thieving convict whores will get it.’
As the days followed one on another like a line of cattle strolling to the dairy for milking, Susannah seemed to return to health. Kate Packham was not so blessed. Martha and Kate, two sisters, had been sentenced for stealing bolts of cloth. They never stopped complaining about the ship, their messmates, the company, and their aches and pains. They ate their rations with relish enough, and scavenged for scraps left by anyone who might be feeling poorly at the time. A week-long storm brought more seasickness. This time, some of the women were slower to recover. Long after the ship sailed into quieter waters, they lay in their berths. Their muscles began to waste to the point where the effort of rising was too great. One who suffered thus was Kate. Martha scolded her ceaselessly.
‘Get thee on thy feet, shiftless wench! Thy lazy tricks will be the death of thee! Get thee up and walk! Wouldst have thy legs waste away?’ In vain, Martha co-opted Eliza and Susannah to help drag Kate from her berth, urge her to walk during the rostered exercise periods. She would merely weep and fall to the ground. Once they dragged her as far as the deck.
‘Take me back, take me back,’ she whimpered. ‘The cold will kill me.’ Her convulsive shivering gave strength to her plea. Her continued occupancy of the damp berth bred lice. She took to scratching herself without ceasing. Her berth mates took her to task, as much out of pity as to rid themselves of a too-close source of breeding lice. The stubborn woman resisted them, though she was wasting piteously. Her scalp and body bled as she scraped herself raw. Sores spread over her flaking skin.
Eliza examined her own body daily, first with some pretence at privacy, then ignoring her messmates as she scrutinised every inch of her skin. She found a sailor who for no more than a kind word would dip a pail of water from the sea, and she washed her hair in the salt water whenever she could. It became matted and stiff. No matter, it looked no worse than her comrades’ greasy locks. Many of the women, who had spent years in prison or on the streets, smiled at
her antics.
‘Lady Purity will catch cold from the salt water,’ they joked. ‘She’ll die from too much washing.’ Eliza persisted, and was to find she attracted no lice during the entire voyage. Kate began to cough, particularly at night. At first, she was but one more voice in the nightly chorus. Then it seemed as though she never stopped. The warders made no exception to the strict rationing of blankets and clothing, though they did issue the occasional measure of wine allowed the sick. Kate sank lower. From time to time, she lost her lucidity.
‘I wonder there’s nourishment enough for a louse there,’ Susannah observed as she eyed Kate’s wasting body. The sick woman’s coughing fits had lately grown so severe as to add incontinence to the burdens those sleeping below her must endure.
‘God knows, but we don’t need no showers of golden rain on top of all the other bounties He sends us,’ Susannah said. But it was she who ordered the others to take turns in giving up their blankets so that Kate could be kept warm. One night, the sick woman’s breathing took on the laboured gasp of one who is close to death. She lasted until the afternoon of the next day, when she exhaled a rasping breath, then lay still. Next day, her stiff corpse was dropped over the side after a token ceremony. It had not been the first death on the ship. Certainly there would be others. That night, as Eliza lay in her berth, she heard Kate’s sister Martha sobbing.
‘She weren’t a bad girl. She loved her father and her mother. If I live to land in Botany Bay, I’ll have to send word to my poor old mother. And that will kill her.’
The ship took on provisions at The Cape. This created a dash of excitement for the women, for whom monotony had become the biggest burden of all. In days that sojourn was over, and the ship began the long eastward run to Botany Bay. For a few weeks the sailors made free with the money and liquor and delicacies they had acquired at The Cape, and this flowed down to the women.
Eliza watched it all, and set her mind on preserving her health as best she could until the end of the journey. She strengthened the few friendships she had made, and resolved to keep out of harm’s way. If she earned a reputation as a recluse, she didn’t care. The bond with Susannah waxed stronger each day. Susannah was Eliza’s opposite in so many ways — loud where Eliza was quiet, aggressive where Eliza was retiring, confident where Eliza was introspective and subdued. But she had become a mother to the silent adolescent. Eliza saw that Susannah wanted to mother someone, and God knew Eliza needed the strength of a woman who was older, wiser, and schooled in the ways of the world as they applied to the convict transport. Their friendship flourished because it rewarded both parties.
