Hannah

by Raymond Clarke

  Chapter 6

  THE ROARING FORTIES

  August - September 1810

  Hannah knew she had done everything possible to prevent falling pregnant. She’d tried liquor soaked sponges on a string and the old lag’s recommended candle-wax caps before and after lying with John Dixon but it was all in vain. She was going to be a mother. She could have gone to that ugly, dirty old crone Mary Driscoll who was adept with a knitting needle but her every nerve recoiled at the very thought. She was three or four months with child and was determined now to carry it.

  Porter wasn’t surprised when she told her. ‘I knew, Hannah,’ she nodded. ‘I didn’t have five sisters — they took it in turns to drop their bundles — to know when they had one in the oven. I saw you sick of a morning but I didn’t say anything. Besides, I haven’t seen any bloody rags for a while, my friend.’ She chuckled. ‘I knew you’d tell us sooner or later, missy.’

  Hannah shook her head in mock irritation. ‘Call yourself a friend. You should have told me that you suspected, Hannah P.’

  ‘Have you told the proud father to be?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve told him—’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s surprised but happy about it. He says he’ll give me help when we get to Sydney.

  ‘Help? So he should. He’s not a bad man, your John, but will he marry you, Hannah? Come to think of it,’ Porter gave her friend a close scrutiny. ‘You have got a bit of a bump. Turn around and let me see.’

  ‘Jasus, Porter. There. Is that enough?’ She pirouetted for Porter’s benefit. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Promise me,’ Porter eyed her, ‘that I’ll be the Godmother.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you crazy girl. Who else would I choose for that honour? Big Tess?’

  ‘What will you call it, the boy I mean?’

  ‘It could be a girl, you know.’

  ‘I don’t think John Dixon wants a girl. Do you?’

  ‘Well, bully for him,’ Hannah laughed to hide her thoughts of a possible problem. ‘If he doesn’t like it, it’s just too bad. Besides—’

  ‘Jeremy’s a fine name for a boy,’ Hannah P stated, eyes suddenly misting.

  ‘Why Jeremy or shouldn’t I ask? Is that a childhood sweetheart of yours, Hannah P?’

  ‘It was my brother’s name, Stanley. Oh, my God.’ She wiped at wet eyes with anger. ‘They hung him, didn’t they, the rotten bastards, for just taking a sheep to feed his family. He had four wee children, too.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Hannah put an arm around her and drew her close. ‘If it’s a boy then it’ll be called Jeremy. I promise you.’

  ‘Thanks and what if it’s a girl?’

  ‘Then I’ll call it Charlotte after my little sister back in England.’

  ‘Good,’ Porter smiled through her tears. ‘Now, we know where we are, don’t we?’ She wiped a hand across her damp face. ‘By the way, where’s our princess? Is she in the usual place?’

  ‘Yes, up on deck with young Bart, doing what comes naturally.’

  ‘Do you really think they’ve done it,’ Porter asked, a wicked smile on her lips.

  ‘I hope not. We’ve got enough trouble with this little one.’ She patted her tummy. ‘I told her not to for what that’s worth but you know her. She’s got a mind of her own.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ Porter chuckled. ‘You know, I don’t think Bart is prepared to do it, unless of course she keeps parading around in a chemise and no drawers. Ha ha. You do know that the officers took him into Rio to the brothels but he wouldn’t go in to sample a whore. He’s still a virgin so they say. What a waste.’

  ‘Porter, I hope you’re not getting any ideas to rectify that problem, not after that last nasty business with Rosie.’ She locked eyes with her friend and shook her head. ‘Leave him for Rosie, Hannah P,’ she warned.

  ‘Of course, Hannah,’ Porter grimaced. ‘What do you take me for? For God’s sake—’

  ‘Okay, forget it. Let’s go up top and have a look at the sea. It’s calm now.’

  ‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’

  ‘John doesn’t think so. He says the Captain’s expecting a storm soon.’

  ‘Great,’ Porter snorted. ‘That’s all we need, to be locked up in this coffin again while Rosie and a hundred others are perking their guts up. I can hardly wait. Ugh!’

  ‘Come on, Hannah P, let’s go before our time is up and stop complaining. Maybe, we won’t get a storm after all.’

  ‘Yeah, and pigs might fly,’ retorted Porter.’ Come on, Hannah, let’s move it.’

  ‘Now you’re in a rush, I see. Is that red-headed sailor something to do with it?’

  ‘No, no, you are joking, certainly not him. He’s got bad body smell, that one. I’m looking around, thank you.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say, any port in a storm.’

  ‘Stanley, please don’t mention storms. Come on.’

  The two Kent girls laughed, linked hands and moved with exuberant haste towards the ladder and its access to the wonderful freshness of the open deck of the Canada...

  Bart and Rosie sat side by side, their backs against the corner bulwark of the poop deck. It was quieter here in this little alcove, away from the hustle and bustle of the duty crew. From here, they could, shielding their eyes against the strong sun, view the lone sailor standing atop the mizzen mast. ‘He won’t fall, will he?’ Rosie asked, a tremor in her voice.

  ‘No, Rosie, that’s Benjamin Cameron. He’s been at sea since he was twelve years old, so they told me.’

  Rosie lowered her head onto Bart’s shoulder. ‘You know, Bart,’ she said sadly, ‘I wonder what will become of us when we get to the new land. I guess you’ll be going away on the ship back to—’

  ‘England?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rosie turned to whisper in his ear, ‘and you might never come back.’

  Bart touched her cheek tenderly. ‘Oh, dear one, I wish I knew what would happen in the future but I can’t. All I know is that I am bound to the Canada and I cannot leave the ship at least until I return to England. Even then, I am indentured to serve in His Majesty’s ships for a minimum of five years so my life is and will be the sea. I’m so sorry, Rosie.’

  Rosie nodded, eyes downcast. ‘Maybe we should . . .’ She paused.

  ‘Should what, Rosie?’ He tenderly placed a tendril of brown hair behind her ear.

  ‘Oh, no, Bart, what am I thinking? Just forget it.’

  ‘Come on now. We have no secrets.’ He cupped her chin in a palm and thought about the softness of her skin. ‘Tell me.’

  Rosie sighed. ‘Well, I . . . I was just thinking about us. I know that we can never get together for years, if at all.’ She turned her head to look at him, dark eyes searching his face. ‘But if you did want to, we could . . . oh, God, I can’t say it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You mean we could lie together, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gave a hollow laugh but peeped between her fingers for his reaction. ‘That’s what I mean, sir.’

  He turned away from her and looked out to starboard. In the distance a flock of seagulls flew around a dark patch in the calm green sea. ‘I think there’s a school of fish there, Rosie. See the disturbance on the water?’

  ‘Bart, did you hear what I said?’

  He turned, his eyes locking with hers, a shy smile on his lips. ‘Yes, Rosie, my sweet girl, I heard and I thank you and I so much want to be with you, only with you.’ He hung his head then and she lowered her head and kissed him on a smooth cheek.

  ‘Then so it shall be,’ she said, eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘When we can, Bart, and when you want.’

  ‘Yes, thank you and when you want, too.’ He watched her face, reading the love in her eyes, relishing the sensuality and promise of her full lips and the rise and fall of her bosom within the thick calico smock. He remembered that first day when she wore only a chemise and she had needed him to stop Big Tess. Now they needed each other. The sudden embarrassing development
in his groin confirmed the fact. He was wondering how to hide or perhaps promote it when a shadow fell over them. He looked up and froze in fright at the figure of Captain Ward.

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Stubbins.’

  The embryo lovers staggered to their feet. Bart smoothed his blue coat. ‘Good . . . good morning, sir.’ Beside him, Rosie touched her forelock. ‘Good morning, Captain Ward, sir.’

  ‘Humph.’ Captain Ward gaze went from one to the other, a wry smile on his gaunt, weather-beaten face. ‘I presume you are not on duty, Mr. Stubbins.’

  ‘No, sir, definitely not, sir, I am not on a shift.’ He looked sideways at Rosie, amazed to see she was holding back a giggle and she even gave him a sly wink in front of the Captain, if you please.

  ‘And who is this young lady, mister. Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

  Bart recovered his wits. ‘Sorry, sir, this is Rosie O’Donoghue. She’s a—’

  ‘Dear friend of yours?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir, very much so, sir.’

  ‘For real sure he is, sir.’ Rosie laughed, showing her square white teeth and met the captain’s gaze with the confidence of the young. ‘Bart is my hero.’

  ‘Well, well. Is that so? And pray tell me, Rosie O’Donoghue . . .’ The Captain pursed his lips and put on a mock frown. ‘Why do we have the pleasure of such a pretty young lady as yourself on my ship? What dastardly crime did you commit in far off England or was it Ireland? Did you murder ten people or blow up Parliament House perhaps?’

  Rosie grinned. ‘In London it was, sir. I had just come from Dublin. They said I stole a gold watch.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No, sir, a gentleman gave it to me.’

  ‘Humph. How lucky for you.’ The captain smiled. ‘I think you’d better go below, now, young Rosie. Oh, by the way, how old are you?’

  ‘Fourteen, sir, but I am nearly fifteen.’

  ‘My God, they’ll be taking babies out of their crib next. Go below, now, that is a good girl. I want to talk to your hero here.’ The captain waited until Rosie vanished down the hatch before turning to face his midshipman. ‘Now, Mr. Stubbins.’

  ‘Yes, sir? ’

  ‘I want you to go and get some sleep for an hour or two. Why? Because, I want you to work with Mr. Hendry from eight bells on, all night I would expect and maybe more. You see those black-looking clouds? Not there in the north, mister, over there, behind us, to the south-west?’

  ‘Yes, now I see it, sir.’

  ‘That’s a warning. Note the calm seas but don’t be misled. We’re in for one hell of a blow and . . .’ His keen eyes surveyed the horizon. ‘We’ll know about it very soon. Now go below and sleep.’

  Bart needed no second instruction. He scooted to the officer’s companionway. As he made to drop below, he paused to listen to the Captain’s calm commands. ‘Mr. Robinson, if you please, get everything tied down up top. Get the convicts to empty their buckets in the next half hour. Make sure they have a plentiful supply of food and water and then secure them all below. Close the hatch and tell them it will be a little uncomfortable for a while.’

  ‘We’re for it, then, Captain?’

  ‘Indeed we are, Mr. Robinson, indeed we are.’

  ‘I remember on the Speke, sir, we had—’

  ‘With all due respects, Mr. Robinson, kindly proceed with the tasks at hand. We haven’t got a great deal of time for idle chit chat. Later, I’d dearly love to hear about your exploits on the Speke with my old friend, Captain Tom Hutchings.’

  The Captain smiled but not with his eyes and Robinson noted it. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘Oh, and Mr. Robinson, send someone to rouse out the bosun. We may need the spare sails, depending on how much — or how little — canvas we run before the wind.’

  Robinson nodded and touched his cap. As he walked away to follow orders, he wondered if he had ever met someone so hard to understand as the Captain, one time friendly, laughing, even telling with relish a joke from his old sailing days and in the next hour — perhaps the next minute — aloof, rude and definitely unfriendly.

  Was the storm worrying him more than he would admit? Robinson stole a glance aft. The blackness had spread since he’d last seen it. Now it extended as far as the eye could see, from the north horizon to the south horizon. He realized with some trepidation that he had never seen such a build up before, not even when he was on the Speke. He thought about the convicts and what they would face. He would go below now and give them some warning but there was nothing more that he could do. Their lives and that of the crew were in the hands of God almighty and a Captain called John Ward.

  The storm hit just before dusk withsudden impact, the sky thickening into towering blackness and the seas steeped in synchronism with the gale force west wind. By darkness, the Canada ran under a fore course and a crossjack and with no other sail, which Robinson was pleased to see. Had the Captain remembered their discussion when they were near Cape Town? Much as he liked to believe it, he doubted if Ward followed his suggestion. He rarely took notice of his officer’s suggestions or didn’t seem to. They’d taken a fix at noon, he and Second Officer Hendry, with the captain hovering nearby. They were about 150 miles south west of a lonely tiny island — annexed by France, he believed — in the vastness of the Southern Ocean. Ahead to the east lay some five thousand long miles to their destination, Sydney Cove. He sighed and concentrated on the job of supervising the two helmsmen. Not that experienced tars like Jack Fortesue and Ted Langers needed much correction. They were among the best.

  At midnight, the seas lashed into a fury. Squalls of wind tore at the courses and monster dark seas leaped the rails sending rushing streams cascading over the decks. The scuppers flooded and obstructed and the captain shouted for clearance. Most of the crew clung to lifelines and prayed as the Captain stood beside First Officer Gordon Robinson and never took his eyes off the line of his ship. Every so often, Robinson and Hendry moved to add weight to the wheel and maintain headway. The wind was on a quarter behind them, pushing the Canada east to the new land at a startling rate. Robinson remembered the Speke, the ship surfing along, skimming the broken water. Every so often, in between coasters, the Canada would thump into the sea with a resounding boom but the Captain never showed emotion, just stood, aware of everything. Robinson knew that their only trouble would be if they broached — losing headway — and then all could well be lost. He put the possibility out of his mind and cast his thoughts to the poor, terrified convicts down below in the hold of the Canada.

  He became aware that the Captain was talking so cocked his head to listen to the substance of his comment. ‘. . . and so, gentlemen, I bid you welcome to the Roaring Forties.’

  Robinson nodded politely along with the others. He stood side by side with his master and brother officers and peered ahead into the cold, black unfriendly sea as the storm raged on . . .

  Hannah remembered she hadn’t made a mark on the wood above her head for the last two days. Somehow, her heart wasn’t really in it as the contents of her stomach reared up into her throat every time the ship bottomed. Boom, boom, boom . . . on it went, on and on for a thousand, perhaps a million times. Porter said in her dry way that the bottom would drop out of the boat shortly, causing Rosie and nearby women to startle, wring trembling hands and bite their lips until blood showed to hide their naked terror. ‘Shut up. Porter,’ someone shouted.

  It was a different type of motion in the ship with this storm, Hannah noted. They seemed to be propelled along on a relatively straight path, skidding over the seas and then the ship seemed to fall into air down and down. There was less rolling too whereas the storm off Cape Town had been different with violent rolling, dipping, rising and twisting as if the ship was a mere cork in the vast expanse of the ocean, powerless to plot its own course.

  Sighing, she reached up and scratched two vertical marks on the moist timber. She began to count the number of lines and marks while an interested Porter lay beside her and watched.
‘Well, how many?’ She eventually asked.

  ‘Hush, Hannah P.’ she grimaced at her namesake. ‘Now, I’ve lost my count.’

  ‘Sorry, your majesty,’ mocked Porter. ‘Go to it.’ She rolled over and closed her eyes. ‘Tell me the bad news count later.’ She lay still for a while before turning back to face Hannah. ‘You know, Captain Cornelious was right. Do you remember him, our lovely landlord in Maidstone? A nice little sea trip, he told me. Huh!’ Porter shook her head and turned away.

  The storm broke on the third day and the near-gale force winds dropped to a relatively moderate twenty knots. The seas abated to comparatively comfortable levels, only the long sweeping after-storm swells lifting and dipping the ship. The Captain ordered more sail and, with her topsails and upper topsails filling, the Canada stood tall and proud and unhurt as she moved briskly on her swift heading to the east. Lastly, the hatches were removed and the convicts — twenty at a time — allowed on deck. As the sun peeped through the thin altocumulus cloud cover, the relieved convicts hove too with zest and vigour emptying the buckets, washing themselves, their eating utensils and their clothes, hanging them on the rails, laughing, chiacking, flirting with the crew, tossing water in play and even dancing on the deck to the accompaniment of a mouth organ.

  The Captain made his inspection of the ship in company with the surgeon and Third Officer Sydney Fife, and ordered the portholes opened in the orlop. He also instructed the washing down of the convict’s bunks and fumigation with vinegar and sulphur. Lastly, to the delight of the convicts, he ordered an issue of limes plus a piece of fruit to each woman.

  Under relaxed conditions and with near full rig for most of the easting, the Canada made excellent time across the Southern Ocean. When close to the west coast of the new land, they encountered another storm and still another, much less dramatic, as they neared Van Diemen’s Land. On the 28th July, the captain wrote in his log: Sighted Tasman’s Head, the most southern corner of Van Diemen’s Land in the early morning. Wind from the south at 15-20 knots which will assist the run up the coast. Under the heading Convicts he noted: Apart from three suffering with pneumonia and two others with some rather horrid and undiagnosed skin disease, all convicts appear physically active and in fair health.