No Safe Anchorage

by Liz Macrae Shaw

  “Very well. I don’t get much chance to see the sea, unlike you.”

  Tom was wary of being aboard any sort of boat. He felt as if he still wore a sort of naval manner that other sailors could recognize. His restless eyes swept over the passengers as they boarded. Emma watched him but said nothing. Once they were settled he smiled, but her face stayed strained.

  “Your fawning worked on Mama but it won’t on me. You have no idea how lucky you were. The oldest and the favorite of both parents.”

  He opened his mouth but closed it again when she glowered at him. “You had the best schooling our parents could afford. I would have died for that. ‘It would be wasted on a girl,’ was all I ever heard.”

  “That wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t easy being sent away.”

  She snorted. “Do you remember when I pleaded with you to teach me some Latin? You promised you would on the next holidays, but instead you spent all your time with the horses down at the farm.”

  He didn’t want to anger Emma by arguing with her. “We did have some happier times together, didn’t we? When we were younger? Do you remember Bosun? He used to be like a nursemaid, watching us while we played. Barking if we strayed too far.” They were sitting opposite each other on the deck and he risked touching her hand.

  “I remember when he shook his head, he soaked everything with a fountain of dribble. I know you’re trying to win me over. You always thought you could charm your way out of trouble. You even got Papa to agree to your going to sea although it broke his heart.”

  “And a sorry mess I made of that.”

  “You’ve not told me the whole story. How are you able to afford your passage? Are you expecting me to give you money?” she asked, a hostile glint in her eyes.

  He winced at her words, but told her about the accident at Bonawe.

  “This Mr. Armstrong, I don’t understand why he has been so generous to you. He would hardly have known you.”

  So Tom told her about how Hector had warned him about the explosion.

  “But it wasn’t the horse that saved the other carters, was it? It was you,” she said, her expression becoming much warmer.

  Tom shrugged. “Enough of me. Tell me about your life.”

  “Frederick is a good husband and we have two children, Thomas and Sophia.”

  “You named your son after me, despite everything.”

  “I hope it doesn’t bring him bad luck. They’re a blessing, but Fred is so busy with his doctor’s practice that he doesn’t see much of them.”

  “And you, are you happy?”

  “I love my family dearly but …”

  “It’s not enough? You always had so much vigour.”

  “Not a quality that’s valued in a married woman.”

  “Could you perhaps assist Fred with his work?”

  She sighed. “That wouldn’t be considered respectable.”

  “I daresay if you had been given my chances in life, you wouldn’t have squandered them.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. But the world is run by men and women are confined to the corners.”

  “What will you do now that all this is closed to you?” She pointed at the Mersey, full with shipping of all kinds.

  “I thought you’d heard enough about me.”

  She cuffed him with the crumpled piece of paper.

  “Well, as Mr. Armstrong has been my saviour in paying for my passage to Canada, I can make a fresh start over there.” His smile couldn’t hide the sadness in his eyes. “But I shall never be able to return home or see you again.”

  “You’ve no choice. But you can write to me and tell me about your new pioneering life. I believe there is a postal service over there?”

  “Now that you’ve possibly forgiven me, can I have my drawing back?”

  She put her head on one side as if deciding whether to agree and smoothed out the crumpled paper, “I didn’t know you were such a good artist.”

  “Thank you. Neither did I. Painting wasn’t encouraged at school, but all naval officers have to learn how to draw as an aid to navigation. I discovered a taste for it and had plenty of practice once I was on the survey ship.” He stuffed the scuffed paper into a pocket. “While I was at Bonawe, I made a little money penning portraits for the men who worked there. I thought I could do the same for passengers on the ship and maybe find work as an artist in Canada.”

  “Hmm. Sounds rather harebrained to me.”

  He frowned in annoyance while she groped at the collar of her blouse until she had unclasped the silver chain around her neck. “What about this instead?” She opened the locket and put it in his hand. He gazed at the small photograph of two solemn-faced children.

  “My nephew and niece? It doesn’t look as if either of them are fair like me. But they’re fine-looking children.”

  “No. They’re both dark haired like their father. It’s not the children themselves I want you to consider, but what they represent.”

  “You mean family life? You think I should take a wife? How can I?”

  “The look of horror on your face is hardly flattering to my sex. Of course, you’re in no position to get married. I’m thinking about your choice of profession. I wanted to show you how the artist is being replaced by the photographer. This is the future.”

  “Oh, and who was the eminent photographer who took this portrait?”

  “Me. A suitable pastime for a respectable married woman, do you think?”

  He peered more closely. “It must be difficult getting your subjects to sit still. And carrying all that heavy equipment …”

  “Too much for a mere woman?”

  “Obviously not. Do you concentrate on portraits or compose landscapes, as well?”

  “Landscapes, still life, botanical studies. I especially enjoy taking close-up pictures of flowers and leaves. Effects of light and shade, too. I develop the photographs myself.” The words spilled out.

  “I can see how photographs would be useful for sailors, too. They wouldn’t replace charts though.” His face clouded. “All that’s over now for me.”

  “But you’ve a second chance. When are you sailing?”

  “Tomorrow. Will you come and wave me farewell?”

  “No, I must return home today.”

  “You haven’t told Fred you were coming here, have you?”

  “You’re not the only one who has to keep secrets, but unlike me you’re in command of your own life. Write to me.”

  By unspoken agreement they steered conversation back to shallow waters. “If you had your camera here, you could have taken my photograph,” Tom said.

  “Or even better, some views of the city and the waterfront.”

  “But I’m a wanted man now. The only photograph of me is likely to be a likeness by the police.”

  After returning on the ferry, they lingered by the water before walking to the railway station. Tom bent to embrace her, his hands resting on her tightly corseted waist. He pushed some sovereigns into her resisting hand.

  “No, I insist. Mr. Armstrong gave me much more than I need. Buy yourself a pretty gown … no, a piece of camera equipment.” He ducked as she swatted him with her free hand and they both laughed.

  Chapter 26

  At Sea, April 1862

  Tom waved farewell to Emma as she boarded her train, but there was no one on the quayside to watch him depart on the Ocean Monarch two days later. The shipping companies advertised fast steamships for the Atlantic crossing, but he had chosen to sail. Was that what John Robinson, a shipping clerk, would do? Probably not. A sensible young man would prefer a modern, safer ship, despite his limited means. So why had he chosen the old-fashioned way? After all, he had spent most of his naval service on steam vessels. But to cut himself adrift from his old way of life, he needed to separate slowly, strand by strand. It would also delay his arrival in Canada. He had spoken breezily to Emma about his plans but seeing her again had left him buffeted by doubts and regrets.

  This ship looked too
shabby to live up to her name. She was more like a queen in faded exile, and very different from the sturdy old Porcupine. Would she sink and turn into a monarch of the deep? Shivering, he turned up his collar and surveyed the other passengers waiting to board. Most of them were in family groups, especially those with steerage tickets who stood together in drab huddles. He felt relieved to see that there were a few better dressed people waiting too, mainly young men. He let the surge of bodies push him up the gangplank. His cabin was on the deck above steerage. The three young men already there were dressed in clean, well-used clothes. They greeted him affably in Irish accents and Tom was polite but sparse in his replies. John Robinson was a wary, anonymous man.

  There was no one to wave a handkerchief to him. He stayed inside as the ship departed, but once they were under way he went on the upper deck, carrying his painting materials and wearing a broad-brimmed hat. Drawing would pass the time and provide him with a disguise, even if, as Emma claimed, artists would soon be out of date. He wedged himself against the side of the ship near the prow and sketched the grubby tug that was pulling them out of the Mersey to the open sea. After adding the tall port buildings, he stowed his paper away in a canvas bag and paced the deck. How strange it was not to hear the constant thrum of engines beneath his feet. This ship made a cacophony of sounds as the wind prodded her, timbers grinding and grumbling, ropes scraping and chafing, and sails straining and slapping. The smells were different, too, from the Porcupine. No reek of coal and oil to mask the scent of salt-encrusted timbers. He could detect a farmyard stink, coming from a pen where goats, pigs, and poultry were shuffling and grunting. There were voices too, swooping from the top deck and the decks below, shouted orders, the hum of women talking, and the crying of babies.

  After an hour or so, most of the passengers had gone below. Now he could inspect the vessel. Using his pocketknife, he poked the wood as far down as he could reach over the side. The timbers seemed sound enough and the caulking was stuffed in tightly. He hoped the planking lower down was as good. This ship wasn’t as tidy as a naval vessel would be. Coils of rope were roughly bundled rather than neatly stashed. The crew seemed sparser and sloppier than he was used to. And that scrum of passengers in steerage would be difficult to control if the ship hit bad weather.

  I must stop questioning everything, he told himself. I’m not a sailor now. This ship had survived many voyages up to now. The captain wants to dock safely in Canada and even if the deckhands were ruffians, it didn’t mean that they didn’t know their business. He squinted upward and was pleased to see the lookout in position. On his first ship, a relic from Nelson’s time, an old hand had told him, “It’s quiet up in the crow’s nest. Even in a fog you know when you’re near land. You can hear the surf breaking on the shore and smell the earth.”

  The Ocean Monarch made fast progress, the wind whisking her toward Ireland and beyond into the Atlantic. The steerage passengers lined up on their section of the deck each day to fill their jugs with water and get their ration of oatmeal and salt beef. The women took it in turns to cook on small fires set in sandboxes, chattering as they worked. The wealthier travelers like Tom had their food prepared by the ship’s cooks to eat inside, but he preferred to take his plate out on the deck. The children from steerage would peer through the gate separating them from the better-off passengers. His unsettled mood, the musty food, and especially the hungry eyes made his stomach clench. He took to handing most of his meals through the gate, trying to select different begging hands each day.

  Over the next week the wind became stronger, making the ship buck and lunge through the swell. Most people on board, including the young Irish fellows, became sick. Tom had never been troubled by seasickness. He remained alert while the others sagged on their bunks, groaning and heaving, not caring if they lived or died. He felt safer, like being the only sober man among drunks. Richard never drank and once Tom had asked him, “What’s it like being the odd man out when you’re ashore?”

  Richard gave one of his rare smiles. “I’m free as a bird.”

  That’s where we’re different, Tom thought sadly. I’m a seabird that needs to nest close to the colony. I’ve had to learn how to be solitary. One night he remained late on deck, sitting propped up against a mast. It was too dark to see much, but he had no wish to go back to a cabin full of moaning bodies and pails of vomit. He welcomed the wind that spurred on the ship and closing his eyes he let his body sway with the motion. Suddenly, he stiffened as his ears detected the soft padding of bare feet, followed by a murmur of voices.

  “Come on. I bet he’s in here. Have a look.”

  Tom peered into the gloom and made out two figures. One of them was a short, bowlegged man he knew was a deckhand. His companion, taller and heavier, was unfamiliar. Possibly he was a ship’s cook who rarely left the galley. The smaller one clambered over the side to reach the ship’s boat suspended there. He jumped down, grunting as he lifted the heavy tarpaulin cover and then snickered as he peered inside. There was a bleat of alarm and scuffling feet. The big man shuffled up and helped his companion haul out a small, struggling form. They dropped their catch on the deck. The small sailor kicked it with his gnarled foot. They were too preoccupied to notice Tom tiptoeing up behind them. He cannoned into the bigger man, catching him off balance so that he tripped forward and cracked his head against the ship’s timbers. As his friend turned, Tom grabbed the back of his shirt and lifted him off his feet,

  “You thought you’d have some fun, did you?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw the felled man lumbering to his feet and booted him in the shins.

  “Get belowdecks. I’m a naval officer, so don’t try any tricks.”

  The bigger man staggered away, cradling his head. Tom shoved the smaller man hard in the back to make him follow. He watched over their prey as the two men scuttled away. The scrawny sailor half turned, “Want it all for yourself?”

  Tom stood beside the creature. What to do now? He’d done the one thing he’d vowed not to, given himself away. A filthy paw groped from under the pile of rags and tugged at his trouser leg. Tom skittered back. The thing lifted its head. A monkey face with staring eyes and snarling mouth. Was it some kind of ape? Tom recoiled, gasping at the smell that arose from it. Its face looked cowed yet knowing.

  This is the last thing I need or want, Tom thought. “Who are you? What’s your name?” The creature got to its feet and stood upright. It was human after all. He couldn’t abandon it. It sidled closer and clasped his leg again. What should he do? Take it back to the cabin for the night and hope the others are too sick to notice? He turned and it followed him, almost standing on Tom’s heels as he went back.

  Thank goodness the others were asleep. Tom mimed to it to take off the dirty plaid round its shoulders. He threw down a blanket and pointed to the floor beside his bunk. He knew it was a child. Its height suggested about ten years of age. Boy or girl? The hair was long. That meant a girl, but the torn trousers indicated a boy. Whatever it was, it was jumping with vermin. The best plan would be to get up early, hose it down so that it didn’t smell so foul and then take it down to the steerage deck. Maybe some family would adopt it. One more mouth wouldn’t make much difference to a big family and Tom would pay them. There would be no need for the captain to know. The officers took no interest in the passengers anyway, especially the poor ones. Feeling easier in his mind, Tom drifted off to sleep.

  He escaped to a dream where he was swimming in a tropical sea among a shoal of vividly colored fish that brushed against his legs and nibbled him with soft gums. They didn’t feel cold and slimy to the touch but warm and supple. As he watched, they were transformed into creatures like mermaids with slender limbs and streaming hair. His heart surged with joy as one of them turned toward him and smiled. He recognized the flame-colored hair and creamy skin of the mysterious girl, but as he reached out toward her, she flashed away. He followed and she glanced over her shoulder, half smiling. As she did so her fa
ce changed. It rippled as a wave swirled across it, shifting her features so that the brow deepened, the jaw became firmer and the mouth widened. She had transformed herself into Richard. Tom threw his head back and laughed with joy as he recognized his friend.

  The laugh turned into a stifled cry as Tom jolted awake. He could feel a feathery touch on his leg. That was what had woken him. The sensation inched up to his groin. He slammed his hand down, squeezing until he could feel birdlike bones grinding together.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, pulling the whimpering boy from under the blanket and throwing him on the floor. The boy huddled there with tears oozing down his cheeks, leaving clean rivulets on his grimy face.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, but do not touch me. Do you understand?”

  The child dipped his head and they both went back to bed. Tom felt too anxious to sleep again and once it was light he shook the child awake and took it up on deck. He found some canvas spread out by the crew to catch rainwater. Miming to the creature that it should strip, Tom scooped some of the water into a pail and sluiced it down. It shrieked and raised its arms. It was a boy, then. For the first time Tom felt pity for the stowaway with his puny, goose-pimpled limbs and closed face.

  “Who are you?”

  But the lad looked away, slack jawed. Probably simple minded and abandoned by his family. His pale skin, black hair, and blue eyes suggested Celt rather than Saxon. Irish maybe, but the plaid he had been wrapped in looked Scottish. Tom handed him a blanket from the cabin to dry himself and sighed as he remembered the fisher girls in Stornoway, and their rough kindness in swilling away the fish guts that clung to him when he hid from the excise men. He gripped the boy’s shivering hand as they climbed down through the decks to reach the steerage accommodation. As they descended, the air grew stifling and fetid until they were in the stinking, slopping bowels of the ship. The stench of vomit, bloody flux and rancid bodies forced Tom to pinch his lips together to stop himself from gagging. Captain Otter had told him about the coffin ships he had seen leaving Ireland at the time of the famine, years before. Starving, dead, and dying all heaped in together and bodies, weighted down with stones, slipped overboard every night. The emigrants had suffered more than the slaves snatched from Africa and transported in chains to the New World. Slaves were worth keeping alive for the price they would fetch. Poor Irish people had no value. Surely conditions had improved now the famine was over? It was hard to believe they had.