3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

  Albert looked at her as if she was speaking Greek. ‘Manna-who?’

  ‘The king of the sea.’

  ‘You mean Triton.’

  ‘The same.’

  Albert looked at her suspiciously. ‘Then who’s Rena—?’

  ‘Rhiannon. I was named for her.’

  Albert frowned. ‘What’s her game?’

  ‘She could restore the dead to life and lull the living to death.’

  Albert let out a low whistle and looked at Rhia suspiciously. Then, as though he thought better of standing so close to the deck railings with her, he set off hastily along the side of the ship he called leeward. Rhia followed gingerly, keeping her gait wide and her gaze anywhere but on those capering waves.

  The assembly for morning prayer was small, fewer than fifty prisoners and no passengers. Albert paused before they reached the top of the last, short flight of stairs before the quarterdeck. ‘Rev Tooting says he’s returning to his flock in the colony, so I suppose he’s got some merino.’ Rhia laughed aloud. Albert looked surprised, either because he’d never heard her laugh or because he hadn’t been joking. He shook his head. ‘Never known there to be a preacher on board a transport.’ He added, ‘Captain says it’s a good omen.’

  Albert left Rhia to climb the last few stairs on her own, and she felt his absence acutely. He had succeeded in lightening her heart. She took her place at the back of the ragged assembly. The sour smell of sickness hung in the air. She probably reeked of it herself. Reverend Boswell droned his lesson, a sermon on deliverance from sin and damnation. She wondered if the deliverance of a shipload of sinners to the colonies counted as redemption.

  Rhia soon lost interest in the sermon and edged a little closer to the brass railings of the quarterdeck so that she could see more of the main deck. There was ceaseless activity. A command was passed from the bow of the ship to the mate or the bosun – she was not sure which – and then to a sailor who scurried up the rigging and adjusted a sail. The bosun kept his eye to the sails, to judge any change in the direction of the wind, Rhia supposed. She looked up, following his gaze. It was astonishing that these men could read the wind and the sea so that a ship could travel, at speed, to the farthest reaches of the earth. For a moment she felt a sense of wonder, rather than horror, at the thought of what she was undertaking.

  When the sermon was over, Rhia did her best to fall in with the others as they filed behind a warden on their way back to the mess. They descended four short flights of stairs, through two lower decks and past dark, musty recesses ’tween decks. Their destination was a hatch in the floor of the lower passenger deck, from which the tip of a ladder protruded.

  Before she even put her boot on the top rung of the ladder, Rhia smelt the stale air below. On a passenger vessel, the orlop was assigned to those travelling at the cheapest rate, along with livestock, luggage and provisions. On a merchantman such as the Rajah, it was also the part of the ship that would be used for transporting cargo. On this occasion, human cargo.

  She descended into the dark, airless space below feeling increasingly fortunate to have her hutch. More reason to feel grateful. Her eyes slowly became accustomed to the dim interior of the hull. Eventually she could make out that the length of the ship’s lower chamber was divided up into partitions by sailcloth. She glimpsed two other messes and could now see two rows of six hammocks hanging from the great struts of oak that supported the deck above. A long table, with benches at either side, was bolted to the floor in between.

  Several of the hammocks looked like large brown cocoons which occasionally issued a moan. The odour of sickness was almost overwhelming in this stuffy, confined space. On the table sat pewter bowls, a cast iron pot and a plate of hard, dry biscuits. The stale smell and the sight of food did nothing for the delicate balance between Rhia’s belly and that of the ship.

  Most of the women who had attended prayer passed through the first mess to one of the identical chambers running the length of the orlop. A few stayed and sat at the table in the first mess. Rhia didn’t know what to do, so she stood back from the ladder, against a small patch of bare timber hull, and waited to see what would happen next.

  ‘You might as well stay in this mess, Mahoney,’ said the warden irritably when she noticed Rhia. The woman was skinny and beak-nosed and enjoyed being in charge. Amongst the half-dozen women who were now around the table, Rhia recognized Nell, Agnes and Jane. She sat beside Jane, who was tall and angular and stooped a little. She was habitually gloomy and silent but, if provoked, could conjure an impressive tantrum.

  ‘Mahoney,’ barked Beak Nose, with her sinewy arms crossed over her flat chest, ‘sit at the table. You’ll eat your meals here in Mess One, and there’ll be instruction for you all from your mess captain this morning.’ At least she would not have to venture any further into the belly of the ship. It was bad enough here, even with the hatch open.

  No one at the table spoke to her, which was probably because of Agnes. Agnes was the only prisoner Rhia knew of who had darker skin than her own. She prayed that Nora was not in one of the brown cocoons.

  Rhia’s stomach protested at the mere sight of the sticky gruel. She slipped some of the hard, soda biscuits into her apron pocket. Afterwards, two women cleared the pewter utensils into a pail, and helped each other hoist it up the ladder to the deck. The others took out their sewing. Beak Nose lit a lantern, which illuminated the dim corners of the mess, but barely made it less gloomy. Rhia had never much liked the slick smell of lamp oil and wick but now she inhaled it as though it were tea rose.

  She cast her eyes around warily. The chamber was neat, with a hook beside each hammock and a low shelf to fold belongings onto. She scanned the hammocks for clues about their inhabitants, and thought she saw a frizz of orange hair poking out of one. It could be Margaret.

  The women were talking amongst themselves with the ease that comes from sharing every waking hour. Rhia listened silently. As usual, she felt that she was trespassing amongst those who had earned their sentences through poverty or cunning. She hoped that she was as invisible as she felt, but she knew she wasn’t because she sensed Jane’s eyes on her intermittently. She felt awkward and miserable sitting with nothing to do and no one to talk to.

  A sharp jab in her ribs from Jane’s bony finger made her jump. She slipped a piece of patchwork onto Rhia’s lap and put a needle and thread on the table in front of her. When Rhia stole a look at her, Jane was innocently absorbed in her own needlework.

  Agnes was retelling the tale of her arrest. Everyone had heard it before, but it acquired more vibrancy at each telling. Today, the constable who had pursued Agnes to the St Giles brothel, finding her dressed only in her stays and bloomers, was far more handsome than at the last telling, and she more saucy.

  ‘So I hid the banknotes – the ones I took from herself, and I put them in my garter,’ she said. Rhia was sure Agnes had hidden the stolen banknotes in her corsage last time, rather than in her stockings, but no one seemed to care. She was a natural storyteller with her Gypsy ancestry, and she made them laugh. The Mess had already formed a sisterhood. She had felt less alone in her hutch.

  Miss Hayter’s sturdy black boots and brown wool stockings appeared through the hatch and descended the ladder. When she had found her balance after a tilt of the floor, she looked around, her eyes resting on Rhia.

  ‘Fetch your sewing things, Mahoney,’ she said briskly. ‘Now that enough of you are on your feet, we will start working on a quilt together.’

  Rhia felt light-hearted at the prospect of a few moments alone in the light and air. She climbed to the deck wondering how she would ever survive weeks and months of this. In prison there had always at least been the idea of freedom, with the horses’ hooves on the cobbles of Newgate Street, or the sounds of river traffic drifting across the water at Millbank. Here there was only ocean and sky.

  And Mr Reeve.

  The botanist was standing at the deck rail not far from her cabin door, gazing acr
oss corrugations of steely water. Rhia came as close as she dared to the railings and noticed that he held a pocketbook. He was intent on sketching something, a sea bird perhaps, but he looked frustrated. When he saw her he snapped the book shut quickly.

  ‘Miss Mahoney. I am pleased to see that you are improved.’

  ‘You weren’t ill yourself?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not afflicted. I was, at first. I spent much of a voyage to the Greek Islands in my bunk.’

  Rhia gestured to his pocketbook. ‘Were you drawing?’ He shook his head and looked embarrassed. ‘Only scribbling. I am a poor illustrator – a calamity in my profession.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ she agreed. ‘I am expected below. I must …’

  ‘Of course. Yes. Ah, Miss Hayter has agreed to release you after lunch each day. I will be in the passenger saloon at one o’clock.’

  ‘Is that where we will be working?’ She was relieved. She had feared they might be alone together in his cabin.

  ‘The captain has agreed to assign an empty cabin. I am travelling with rather a large number of samples, you see.’

  Rhia’s heart sank, but she was not going to make the mistake of waiting to be dismissed again. ‘I will see you at one o’clock.’ She hurried away.

  In her cabin, she collected her sewing bag and as many patchwork pieces as would fit in her apron pocket. She wondered which half of the day she would come to dread more, mornings in the orlop or afternoons with Mr Reeve. She hoped, at least, to catch sight of Margaret soon.

  Below, two more women had joined the sewing circle. One of them was Nora. Rhia braced herself, but Nora was still too ill to cast even a withering look at her. In fact, she had to be commended for even getting to the table.

  Miss Hayter cleared her throat and straightened her back as though she were addressing a regiment rather than a few women only an arm’s reach away. ‘We are blessed that, by the good grace and hard work of the ladies of the Convict Ship Society, there will be no idle hands on this voyage. In two weeks’ time, if the wind stays behind us, the Rajah will put into the harbour of Rio de Janeiro, in the Portuguese kingdom of Brazil.’ She said this as though it were a great privilege to visit another kingdom on a prison ship.

  ‘Any quilt finished in time will be sold in the São Sebastiao market in Rio, and the proceeds will be returned to the mess who sewed it. I hasten to add that these wages will be kept in trust, to avoid … loss during the voyage. You will be supervised daily in groups, on the quarterdeck, so that you have fresh air and sufficient light to sew by.’

  It was then ascertained whom amongst them were the most skilled needlewomen. Of the eight now at the table, both Jane and Nell had been seamstresses, Nora, surprisingly, a stay maker, Agnes a bonnet maker, and someone else a muslin sewer.

  Miss Hayter proceeded to reel off a list of rules. No woman was allowed on deck without permission; there would be no gambling and no selling of clothes or other possessions; there would be weekly assignations from each mess to collect provisions from the galley and a daily rota for washing dishes and utensils. Each woman must attend to her own laundry and under no circumstance must fresh water be used for this purpose. Seawater was perfectly adequate and available in abundance (as though they needed reminding). Finally, each woman was expected to conduct herself in a quiet, orderly and respectful manner, and a list of dissenters would be kept by the surgeon superintendent, and delivered to the governor’s office when they arrived in Sydney.

  The daily routine formed another set of commandments. At daylight, roll up and stow hammocks and bedclothes. At half past six, clean the water closets, decks and messes – only then would they be issued their daily allowance of drinking water, along with a ration of biscuits. Then, the surgeon would visit any who were ill. Breakfast was at eight a.m., followed by more cleaning. Then it was time to sew. In fair weather the sewing would take place on the quarterdeck, otherwise, below. There was a specific time for the issue of the allowance of lime juice against scurvy, and a time for a healthful dose of wine. (‘Hally-bloody-lujah,’ said Agnes under her breath.) Tuesdays and Fridays were laundry days. Wednesday was for bathing. In seawater. After eight-thirty p.m. they were forbidden to talk or make noise of any kind.

  The morning saw neat hems sewn around patchwork pieces in poor light. Lunch was a stew of salted beef with hanks of coarse bread. Nora still hadn’t uttered a word. She sat scowling at her sewing, a film of sweat on her face and neck. She was, happily, still too unwell to be her usual tyrannical self.

  Rhia’s afternoon with Mr Reeve drew closer with every stitch. Being a servant, she supposed that she should not have an opinion about anything. She supposed she was capable of not having an opinion. The only thing that comforted her was the knowledge that he, like she, had no idea what to make of the arrangement.

  After lunch Rhia almost navigated the route to the passenger saloon without getting lost. She found herself at the neck of a dark, narrow passageway when she thought she should be at a flight of stairs ’tween decks. The passageway smelt of boiled cabbage, so presumably she was close to the galley. She felt unreasonably pleased with herself when she finally stumbled across the passenger saloon’s small white door. Should she knock or just enter? While she hesitated, a cabin door opened further along the passenger deck and a man started walking towards her. She recognised him as the man in the brown coat towards whom Miss Hayter had seemed so deferential. His appearance wasn’t noteworthy, but for his tallow-wax complexion and bland expression, but he did appear to be taking as much interest in her as she was in him, and he now looked displeased. ‘Have you permission to be on an upper deck?’ he said officiously.

  ‘Are you an officer of this ship?’ she retorted, without thinking.

  ‘I am the agent of her majesty’s government on this ship. My name is Mr Wardell.’

  ‘It isn’t enough that we are lackeys to prison guards and ship’s officers? Are we also under the command of Whitehall?’ It might have been wise to at least appear to be humbled. She would quickly be on the governor’s blacklist at this rate. Mr Wardell’s expression barely changed, apart from the elevation of an eyebrow.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Mahoney. I am assigned to private service. I have an appointment with Mr Reeve in the saloon.’

  ‘Very well. Carry on.’ Wardell opened the door of the saloon and went in himself, not bothering to allow her in first, or even hold the door.

  Two ladies sat on one of the divans sipping on steaming glasses. They were dressed in pretty travelling costumes and white lace gloves. Rhia could smell hot chocolate and sweet pastry and it made her mouth water. She must be recovering. She’d give anything for a slice of Beth’s ginger loaf. The ladies looked through her. She was invisible after all.

  Rhia scanned the few small clusters of gentlemen standing and seated around tables, talking and smoking cigars, before she saw Mr Reeve. He had his back to her and was hunched over a table in the corner of the room. Beside him, and also with his back to Rhia, was a tall, rumpled man with untidy, dark blond hair. Her heart jolted painfully. He reminded her of Laurence Blake.

  The man turned.

  The world stood still.

  It was Laurence. Rhia opened her mouth and then closed it again quickly. She made herself keep walking, through a coil of cigar smoke, past a silver platter of dainty sandwiches. She didn’t know what else to do. Laurence had been expecting her. His expression said that she should give nothing away. Somehow, she managed to cross the room, keeping her eyes carefully averted from his face.

  Mr Reeve nodded to her indifferently, as though he were experimenting with his authority. ‘Good afternoon, miss. Mr Blake and I were just discussing the very subtle differences between these specimens. Mr Blake is a professional of photogenic drawing.’ Mr Reeve was a little flushed and seemed excited to be in Laurence’s company. Perhaps his passion for his work was matched by that for the status and respectability it could bring him.

  Rhia tried t
o focus on the neat line of dried leaves laid out on the table. Behind them was a small tower of wooden receptacles, each as shallow as a cigar box. She was only inches from Laurence and she could feel his eyes on her. She could not imagine how she must appear to him. She had not seen herself in a glass for so long that she had forgotten what she had looked like with hair, let alone without it.

  Finally, Laurence spoke. ‘Do you notice any difference in the leaves, Miss Mahoney? I can’t for the life of me see it.’ She detected one of his teasing undertones, but Mr Reeve would be impervious to it. She looked hard at the row of fragile, grey-brown specimens, forcing herself to concentrate. ‘There is a difference in the vein pattern,’ she almost whispered, hardly trusting her voice.

  Mr Reeve chuckled, obviously pleased. ‘I can see that you are favourably appointed! It takes a power of observation to see such a thing.’ What blarney. It was not such a clever thing at all to notice common differences in the infrastructure of leaves.

  Rhia allowed herself the smallest of smiles, not because she had pleased the botanist with her powers of observation, but because she was not alone after all.

  24 April 1841

  It is early, barely light. The air cloys. It is too warm for linsey, but no other uniform is provided. I sleep in my chemise. Last night I almost removed it, but I cannot lock my cabin door. Miss Hayter says she will purchase cotton in Rio so we can sew summer dresses. Presumably she has an allowance from Whitehall for such things.

  I suppose it was foolish to imagine that Laurence might discover my quarters. How could he without drawing attention to himself? Besides, he would assume that I’m in the orlop with the others. I don’t dare try and find his cabin. I hear that Mr Wardell is on the prowl because Agnes was caught meeting the galley hand, her sweetheart, two nights ago. She was only cautioned, but if it happens again she’ll be whipped before the entire ship.