3 Great Historical Novels (21 page)

A murmur rippled along the procession of rowing boats. The
Rajah
was little more than a dark triangle in the mist, but it was as chilling a sight as a prison van emerging from a London fog. Each creak of the oars brought it closer.

The form of a barque took shape.

The rhythm of the dipping oars gave way to the collision of steely waves against timbers. Above was the mournful cry of gulls. A hush descended as the boats neared the towering hull of the transport.

Further away, through the salty mist, was something even worse, something that made the transport seem like a paper sailing boat by comparison: a dark battalion of leviathans anchored a league away by great chains, each link the size of a carriage wheel.

Hulks.

Finally, something to be grateful for – better to be sent into the unknown than to end up on a prison hulk. A chorus of Hail Marys caught on the wind to be whipped away.

One by one, the rowing boats pulled in to the
Rajah
’s shadow. A rope ladder appeared over the ship’s railings,
lowered
down for the wardens and prisoners to scale the creaking hull to the deck. One by one each woman took her turn and ascended the swinging rope lattice with instructions shouted from above not to look down.

Not that they could help it. The prancing ocean demanded an audience. It might rise up and coil a wave around an unwary ankle. Someone froze midway and was first cajoled and then ordered to keep climbing until finally, tearfully, she crawled up and over the banister at the top.

The rowing boats were eventually empty, and every woman – whether by mettle or by coercion – had reached the deck.

Nelly was still fiercely whispering her Hail Marys as the last of the women assembled on the main deck. Rhia counted each prayer as though it were a rosary bead, until she lost count. There was no chance of freedom now. She looked at the sky, the same sky that stretched above Cloak Lane and Greystones, yet not the same at all. This low, leaden sky was the ceiling of another prison.

In silhouette against it were three masts. Rhia counted the sails. It was something to do. There were six, she thought, though she couldn’t be sure because they were furled. She didn’t yet want to inspect the rest of the vessel that would carry her away to another world. To the Otherworld. Men hung from the rigging of each mast like monkeys from a tree. She lowered her gaze quickly. They were making her dizzy.

There were too many sailors to keep track of, scurrying about like barefooted clerks. At first, they appeared to be too busy to have noticed the one hundred and fifty women standing on the lilting deck, but close scrutiny revealed this was not the case. The women were each being assessed expertly and craftily. Every time Rhia caught a seaman’s eye, it darted away as if his gaze had landed on her by accident rather than by design. The seamen were a motley bunch – some willowy, others brawny, some smooth and youthful, others weathered kegs.

Rhia counted eight penitentiary officers and wardens, all women, standing in a huddle, being addressed by someone who might have been a ship’s officer. He was dressed for the town, and although Miss Hayter had mentioned that there were a small number of civilian passenger berths on the
Rajah
, this man seemed to be someone more significant to the ship. He had an air of authority as starched as his sober brown coat. Miss Hayter was listening to him compliantly, as though he were her superior.

Rhia wanted to bend double against the gnawing anxiety, but she pushed her hands deep into the pockets of her apron and focused on keeping her legs rigid against the tilting of the deck. She tried to locate Margaret amongst the women. Her frizz of orange hair was usually easy to spot. She was behind the swarthy Agnes, almost obscured by the sheer volume of Nora. Before Rhia could catch her eye, the huddle of officers and wardens dispersed and the prisoners were arranged into a queue and directed across the main deck and up a short flight of stairs to a smaller, elevated deck which someone called the quarterdeck.

The quarterdeck looked over the rest of the ship, the perfect place to observe the deck below. Rhia had run out of things to count. She took in details, focusing on the minutiae of woodwork and brass, from the banisters, railings and instruments, to the wide oak timbers of the decking. Everything shone and smelt of linseed and wax. It was hard to believe that this gleaming vessel was in the charge of men: the ship was as clean and polished as if an army of maids lived on it.

The penitentiary officers and Miss Hayter flanked the rows of women. One of the wardens was reading what looked to be a roll, and kept glancing up to scan their faces. At the opposite end of the deck was a small cluster of men, a few of them in
seafaring costume. The most elderly was a sour-faced clergyman. He was talking to the gentleman in the brown coat. Perhaps the latter was some kind of representative of the courts – he had the dour air of the prosecutor who had sentenced Rhia. The captain was easily identified by his battered and
old-fashioned
tricorne hat and by the braided epaulettes on his coat. He had the same ruddy complexion and wispy greying curls as the Greystones baker, and for this Rhia liked him immediately. The tall, stern-looking man beside him must be the ship’s surgeon with his pale hands and aura of calm authority. Two young boys in blue serge doublets and ragged breeches stood a short distance away, casting furtive glances at the women. Presumably the officer’s servants.

Several barefoot seamen started lugging hemp sacks up the stairs. Many were foreign-looking, their skin anything from pitch black to pale olive. A few had shaven heads and many had tattoos on their forearms and wore only canvas breeches held up with a piece of rope. Rhia was not alone in taking an interest. The other women swivelled their heads to get a better view, whispering bawdy comments to each other, some even risking a laugh. There were half-naked men on the
Rajah
. Things were looking up.

Their appreciation quietened down as their little matron moved amongst the rows, pausing to have a quiet word with Nelly who was more distressed than usual. She was the youngest of the women, only seventeen and, Rhia had recently learned, pregnant. Miss Hayter was holding her hand and whispering to her reassuringly. The matron was just as strict and uncompromising as any of the other wardens, but she was rarely harsh. She had about her the solitary, vaguely disappointed air of a spinster, though her age was difficult to judge. More than thirty but less than fifty, Rhia thought. She was
plain, in a drab, restrained sort of way, but not plug-ugly like many of the other guards. She wondered if it was requisite that female wardens be mannish and curt, or if they were made so by their profession. Presumably the wardens on the
Rajah
were migrating to Australia. None of them, besides Miss Hayter, looked familiar to Rhia. Perhaps they thought they had a better chance of finding a husband in the colonies where, by all accounts, there was a desperate shortage of females.

Miss Hayter stopped beside Rhia. ‘Come and see me after you’ve been assigned your belongings, Mahoney.’

A glimmer of hope, but Rhia regretted the temptation of optimism instantly. It was too late for salvation. She nodded and turned her head away. She looked at a growing mound of hemp sacks. They probably contained their new uniforms. Still cut of coarse cloth, no doubt. She didn’t care to speculate on what other provisions the Quakers deemed necessary for a sea journey that might last anywhere from three to six months.

As soon as all of the sacks had been delivered to the deck, Miss Hayter clapped her hands. ‘Collect a bag as I call your name and you will be shown below.’

Rhia waited. The women in her row collected their new belongings and disappeared down the back stairs, each hauling a sack behind. She supposed the stairs led to the lower decks. Nora glared at her as she passed, followed closely by a scowling Agnes. Agnes was always a step behind Nora, and in fawning agreement with her on every matter from the optimum consistency for gruel to the correct number of stitches per yard of linsey. Rhia dropped her head. Not looking Nora in the eye was the best form of protection. Someone brushed past, elbowing her. Rhia looked up quickly. It was Margaret, who winked. It was a small gesture, but a welcome sign of solidarity.

Rhia approached Miss Hayter. She willed herself not to hope. To think of nothing. Not to expect a thing.

‘Ah, Mahoney.’ Miss Hayter looked pleased about something. ‘You are to be assigned to private service for the voyage. There is a botanist travelling to Sydney who has requested a servant. Your name was put forward.’

Rhia didn’t know what to say. She had not expected this.

‘You must see it as a blessing, Mahoney,’ Miss Hayter assured her. ‘You’ll have a servant’s cabin rather than sleeping in steerage with the other women.’ The matron lowered her voice. ‘It has not escaped our attention that you’re unpopular. Confinement often stirs up resentment. It will be better for all if you have separate quarters.’

Rhia wasn’t sure about this. She suspected that it was a mixed blessing, but for now she was relieved. But what sort of servant did a botanist require? Was she to be his maid? Was it Miss Hayter who had put her name forward?

‘You can collect your things, now,’ said the matron briskly. ‘Your sack will have your name on it. By the way, I put something into it before we left Millbank, a package that was delivered along with your portmanteau. The gentleman said that Mrs Blake thought you’d like to have it on the voyage.’ Miss Hayter looked at her sternly for a moment. ‘I don’t usually allow this kind of thing, Mahoney, but since you’ll have private quarters I see no harm in it.’ She looked across the quarterdeck to where the two officer’s servants were loitering. ‘One of the boys will show you the way.’

Rhia collected her sack, as instructed, and the younger of the two boys approached her with a cocky swagger. He looked ten or eleven, with smooth brown skin and chestnut curls streaked by the sun. ‘I’m the midshipman on this tub, but you can call me Albert if you like,’ he said and mock-bowed.

Albert was irritatingly cheerful and she couldn’t see what he had to be so pleased about.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said warily.

‘You don’t look too pleased. A lady, are ye?’

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.