3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

Her laugh sounded bitter, even to her own ears. ‘Would I be here if I were a lady?’

  He shrugged. ‘You talk different to the rest of the cargo.’ He gestured with this thumb downwards. ‘Got a name?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Let’s have it then.’

  ‘Mahoney.’

  ‘Mahoney? Hmm.’

  Rhia looked at Albert suspiciously. He seemed a little too savvy for his years. ‘I suppose you’ve been on other prison ships?’

  ‘Aye, but not this ’un. She’s been in the dry docks up Aberdeen. She’s clean as a whistle, now. Last transport I was on, the bilge had a stink to wake the dead. They used to be much worse, though – prison ships, that is. The likes of you weren’t allowed on the deck and there were shackles and scores who perished.’

  Rhia shivered at the blandness of his tone, as though the death of convicts was barely notable. ‘Then we’ll be allowed on deck?’

  ‘I ’spect so. There’s laws now, y’see. The men don’t like it, but I don’t mind.’

  ‘The sailors you mean?’

  ‘Seamen. They don’t mind lookin’ you over, or havin’ you in their hammock, but they don’t want you in the way on deck.’

  ‘What is the bilge?’ she asked, as if she cared.

  ‘Never mind, ye’ll see. They said you’re to stay in your cabin till you’re called to the mess.’

  ‘The mess?’ Was this to be her first task? How much mess could a botanist make in his first hours onboard?

  ‘Aye, that’s where the lot of ’em sleep and where ye’ll get your supper and such. It’s ten or a dozen together, that’s the usual way. The passengers board later and the captain don’t like them to see the prisoners, so you’re to keep out of sight.’

  They had descended two flights of slippery stairs and were now on a lower deck where a narrow passageway led around a built-in area of the ship. The passenger deck, Rhia guessed.

  ‘Here’s yours,’ Albert said. They were outside a low, narrow door at the aft end of the deck. Rhia held her breath and clutched her sack as she stepped inside. The ‘cabin’ was little more than a cupboard, smaller than her cell at Millbank. It was windowless, and it took her a moment to adjust to the low light. There was space enough for a hammock and a shelf, and there were two iron hooks on the only narrow strip of wall. It smelt of damp rope.

  Albert was still grinning when she caught his eye, but there was something that might have been pity beneath his affected chirpiness. In this virtually friendless existence, even the sympathy of a free-spirited boy was welcome. Rhia attempted to smile back but the muscles of her face were frozen with emotion.

  ‘You’ve only to take a step or two,’ he said, ‘and ye can look at the sea and the sky and ye’ll not find that in London!’ Presumably Albert thought this might be of some comfort to her. How could he know that the sea was the last thing she’d look at to feel comforted. When he was gone, she leant against the naked timbers of the wall, and let all pretence dissolve.

  She took off her cap, and put it on the shelf as carefully as if she was arranging a lace doily. The emotion rushed at her without warning. It took her legs first, weakening her knees. She slid down the wall until she was crouching and put her head in her hands. She tried to think of reasons to be grateful. She was not on a prison hulk, she was not sentenced to death, she was not ill, she was not pregnant. But the tide would not be stopped. It claimed her and she sobbed until she was emptied out and her body was limp.

  When the emotion had passed, the only thing to look at, besides her tears on the floorboards, was the lumpy canvas sack beside her. Rhia wiped her eyes on her apron and untied the length of cord that fastened it. She leaned closer to read what was embroidered onto the hem along the neck of the sack. It was a reminder that this was a benevolent offering from The Convict Ship Committee of the British Society of Ladies. She would have wept some more but she was spent.

  At the top of the sack was a flat, square package wrapped in brown paper. This must be the parcel received for her at Millbank, presumably delivered by Dillon. She unwrapped it. Her red book and, fastened to its spine with a ribbon, Mamo’s pen and a small silver key. It took her a moment to realise that this was the key to her portmanteau. She put the book gently on the shelf. She was not so alone after all. The next item was, predictably, a Bible. She placed this to one side. She may never dare to open another Bible. She removed a hessian apron, and then another of black cotton; a black cotton cap; a comb; two stay laces; a knife and fork; a ball of string. Next was a hessian bag for linen and a smaller one containing pins, needles and sewing cotton in black, white, red and blue. There were two balls of black worsted and multiple hanks of coloured thread. There were darning needles, a bodkin, a thimble and a pair of scissors.

  The rest of the sack was filled with patchwork pieces – the scrap cloth and remains that Antonia and her Friends had been collecting from tailors and clothiers and mercers, including the Montgomery emporium. Rhia managed a small, wry smile. Who would have thought that she would be the beneficiary of Quaker prison reform.

  She folded her aprons and cap onto the shelf, and arranged the other items next to them. She would save the pleasure of inspecting weaves and prints for another time since there was nothing else to look forward to. Her limbs felt heavy, and her heart empty, but she was composed. She had weathered her first storm.

  It occurred to Rhia that there was no point in sitting on the floor when there was a perfectly good hammock to lie in. She climbed into it with some difficulty and pulled a blanket over herself. It smelt mildewed and was rough on her skin, but if she closed her eyes she could just imagine the feel of cambric sheets and soft eider quilts.

  If today were a cloth it would be sailcloth.

  Twill

  The rapping knocked through the dream of a hammock swinging above a pit of sea serpents. It was a half-waking dream, but Rhia was still relieved to put her feet on the solid timber floor. Then the floor moved. She kept her legs braced and leaned across to open the door. It was the other boy, the steward. He was gangly and hunched and seemed shy and unsure of himself. He was two or three years older than Albert, she judged, but had none of the midshipman’s pluck. He held his dirty wool cap in his hands, agitating it as he spoke.

  ’You’re wanted in the passenger saloon.’

  Rhia followed the steward along the timber railings towards the prow for almost the entire length of the lower passenger deck, and then up a short flight of stairs, marvelling at his steady gait. The light had improved, and the hulks were visible. They only looked more sinister for their visibility, and a very real reason to feel grateful. Beyond, the shore of Woolwich where a tangle of vessels was moored – tall-masted merchantmen, pretty little sloops with brightly painted prows. Rhia quickly looked away from land and freedom.

  The passenger saloon was an airy, spacious room, with windows all along one side and freshly lacquered woodwork. There were oil paintings of ships and palm-fringed islands on the walls and an upholstered divan at either end with a mahogany occasional table bolted to the floor nearby. It was like a drawing room and a dining room combined. A slight, fair-haired man stood with his back to her, inspecting one of the paintings. The botanist, presumably. The steward had already disappeared.

  The man turned. His skin was as delicate as porcelain and his face characterless, though not unpleasant. He was, she judged, much the same age as she was, which surprised her. She’d expected someone older. He had an air of downtrodden respectability that suited his vocation. His morning coat was of good quality twill, but worn and old-fashioned. A naturalist needed a patron if his vocation was to become a profession. Though perhaps Mr Reeve had found himself one, to be undertaking such a long voyage? He was inspecting her, as well. He took a deep breath before he spoke, as if to steady his nerves.

  ‘Miss Mahoney?’

  ‘Mr Reeve?’ He nodded. He was struggling to know what to say, and Rhia didn’t feel like helping. She might have, once. She waited. She had
all the time on God’s earth. Except that she was no longer on the earth, she remembered, she was in Manannán’s realm now.

  ‘I hope we can work well together,’ he managed finally, lamely.

  Rhia almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. She supposed she would have to rescue him after all. ‘What sort of work do you do, Mr Reeve?’

  He laughed nervously. ‘Of course. Foolish of me. I have a … sizable collection of preserved flora – herbs, seed pods et cetera, et cetera – that I am cataloguing. I intend to establish a research provision in Sydney, to study the plant life of the Antipodes and compare it with that of the Continent.’

  When he spoke of his work and his ambition he was almost engaging and Rhia didn’t have to feign interest. ‘It must be exciting, making botanical discoveries. But I still don’t understand why you need my assistance.’

  ‘You were recommended.’ He coughed self-consciously, as though to play down the admission. Could it have been Antonia who requested that she be assigned to private service on the Rajah? Maybe it didn’t matter who had recommended her.

  Mr Reeve hurried on. ‘I’m told you will be required to undertake sewing duties with the other women. Shall we devise a schedule – if this is suitable?’

  Rhia snorted before she could stop herself. ‘You’re forgetting that I am a prisoner, Mr Reeve. I must do as I am told.’

  He looked perplexed, but he nodded. ‘Very well. I will confer with Miss Hayter. Um, you are … dismissed.’

  Rhia dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands as she walked back along the rocking leeway to her cabin. She had asked for that. She was a prisoner and a servant, and her self-respect had already failed her. It had happened so naturally. If she wasn’t careful her spirit would be snuffed out entirely. Ironic that she’d so recently thought she didn’t know who she was any more. At least she had established that Mr Reeve did not understand irony. She would be more cautious in the future.

  She experimented with a wide gait until she reached her cabin. Each footfall touched the deck before she expected it. It made her sick to think that, in more ways than one, the Otherworld was rising up to meet her. She cast a furtive look to the sea. It was dove grey and as smooth as silk. The cloth that she had named the morning after the fire. If this was the reason that Mamo had sent her away then it served her right for listening to a ghost.

  The sails had been unfurled. Rhia counted them. Five were square and rigged to the main and mizzen masts, and one was small and triangular; rigged aft. She barely noticed the two hurrying seamen who brushed past her, though the funk of sweat and damp canvas lingered after them. She felt the rigging shudder and then the rhythmic rocking motion of the great hull. They were hauling anchor.

  She hurried, as best she could, back to her hutch. When she was safely in her hammock, she fixed her gaze on the ceiling. She would not, she could not watch the shoreline disappear, and with it all of her hopes. No one and nothing could save her now.

  You must save yourself.

  How could she save herself? She closed her eyes and saw her own wretched form, huddled and swaying in the hammock. She saw the entire ship, sails set and masts as straight and tall as watchtowers.

  The watchtowers are places between the world of men and the Otherworld. Wild honey drips from the forest’s trees, and there are endless stocks of mead and wine. No illness comes from across the seas, nor death nor pain nor sad decline.

  Rhia sat up, her heart pounding. The hammock was swinging wildly. She looked around. It was not Mamo’s voice, it was her own… Was it little Rhia the fey that she kept sensing, with some message from the past?

  Rhia reached into the pocket of her apron and closed her hand over the fold of paper there. She had read the letter Dillon had delivered many times now and always kept it in her pocket. She unfolded it carefully.

  20 March 1841

  My dear,

  I am in haste to catch the last post so I must be brief. I have longed to come to you, but your father is so frail. Lately he thinks he sees Mamo at night in her long johns and old shawl. He says that she is not pleased to have him in her cottage. I have told him again and again that Mamo has been dead years, and that if she were going to show herself to anyone then it would be to you. When you were wee, you believed that you could travel between the Otherworld and the world of men, just like the Rhiannon of the stories. Mamo always said that this was why you were afraid of the sea – that within it you saw the reflection of your true self.

  I am comforted only by the certainty of your innocence and the belief that it will be proven. Mr Dillon has explained to me the circumstances of your arrest. He seems genuinely concerned for your welfare, and this also is a comfort. I hope that I may one day meet him.

  The world will spill her sorrows time and time again. Mamo would say that it is in ourselves, not in the church, that we find what is Holy. In this, she and I did not always agree, but you are a woman now and can decide for yourself. You are always in my heart.

  I will always be,

  Your loving mother,

  Brigit Mahoney

  Rhia folded the letter carefully and put it back in her pocket. She took her book from the shelf that she could reach without leaving the hammock, and untied the ribbon around her silver pen. The little key to her trunk was still fastened to it with a tight knot. The ribbon was long enough to tie around her neck so that the key was hidden by her underclothing. The cartridge of the pen was full of ink, she could tell by its weight. She looked at the delicate engravings on its shank, the looping pattern of the three-way knot. This symbol stood for all that was holy, if you believed in the old stories. The knot was the three fates: past, present and future. It stood for the trinity of spirit, mind and physical body long before the trinity of Father, Son and Holy Spirit was conceived. It represented the three phases of the moon, by which the tides – of oceans and of women – were measured. It was, some said, the triple goddess.

  The red book felt thicker than it should. A piece of cloth had become lodged in its pages. Rhia removed the fold and opened it out, staring at it in confusion. It was her chintz, the sampler that Thomas had woven for her. The square of patterned linen lay like a window to a place where there were brilliant birds and flowering, curling branches bright with berries.

  19 April 1841

  Albert assures me that he’s never known anyone to die of seasickness, which surprises me. The simple engineering of the knotted and looped ropes that suspend the hammock offsets the tilt of the keel, so as the ship rolls across the waves, the hammock remains stable. More or less. The stomach does not. Albert says the sickness is something to do with the balance between my belly and the belly of the ship. He delivers my ration of three pints of fresh water every morning (without spilling a drop, he says) and his is almost the only face I’ve seen, besides Miss Hayter, who looks in every day and gives me arrowroot biscuits and ginger cordial, the ship’s surgeon’s remedy for nausea. Miss Hayter tells me that half of the women below and most of the wardens are incapacitated, so it has been impossible to begin any kind of regimen. She seems disappointed. If there’s one thing I’ve come to realise about her character, it is her love of order and routine. She is perfectly suited to her profession.

  As to my daily ration of water, I may choose either to drink it or wash in it. Albert advises drinking it, since there is plenty of seawater for washing. He says that the sickness should run its course before we arrive in Brazil, though he’s known some who’ve passed the time between Woolwich and Rio bent double over the railings. No sea legs at all, apparently. It is, by his account, a four week voyage to Rio, so we must be almost halfway there already. I am better today, but it has still taken the better part of an hour to write this, and it is crooked and the ink has run. I’d best be sparing with ink, I’ve no idea how or when I might obtain more.

  Knots

  Albert rapped on her door whilst Rhia was gingerly placing one foot in front of another and holding onto the wall.


  ‘If you’re up and about, Mahoney, your matron says you’re to come up on deck. I’ll wait for you, if you want.’

  At least illness had provided refuge from the others, and from Mr Reeve. Rhia groaned as she pulled a stiff black calico cap over her cropped hair, and tied the dour black apron around her uniform. The coarse blend of wool and flax irritated her skin more than usual, but it was warm. Not, of course, in the same way as the soft stroke of cashmere petticoats against silk stockings. It seemed that she’d been cold for ever. In Millbank, the damp from the river stone seeped into everything; air, clothing and bones. Her clothing was heavy with the perennial moisture of Manannán’s domain. Now they were due south, at least the temperature should improve, if nothing else.

  Albert was his usual chirpy self. He’d been feeding her morsels of gossip to keep her mind from her miseries. She’d heard of the first tryst, between a galley hand and a convict, and knew that the preacher, Reverend Boswell, had a bad case of flatus. Or as Albert called it, ‘tooting’. Albert said he’d never heard anything like it, and that he’d had the bad luck to be downwind more than once. There was, according to Albert, a passenger who went on the deck early in the morning to lay pieces of parchment in the sun.

  ‘He’s not right in the head, that’s what I reckon,’ Albert said, pointing out a coil of rope on the deck so that Rhia wouldn’t trip over it. Then he stood still, looking over the sea. ‘Will you look at that, Mahoney,’ he said, pointing out across the waves. She followed the line of his finger, and saw a loop of silver, and then another, and a line of large fins carving through the waves. ‘That’ll be porpoises,’ said Albert. ‘You don’t normally see them in this latitude, they’re usually closer to the South Americas. They’ve come ’specially to say hello, I s’pose.’

  This made Rhia smile. ‘Well after all,’ she said without thinking, ‘Rhiannon was the wife of Manannán, and queen of the sea.’