A Place Called Freedom (27 page)

“I’m sorry, Mack. Your sister was among the dead.”

“Dead?” It was hard to take in. Life and death had been dealt out like cards today. Esther, dead? How could he not have a twin? He had always had her, since he was born.

“I should have let her come with me,” he said as his eyes filled with tears. “Why did I leave her behind?”

Peg stared at him wide-eyed. Cora held his hand and said: “A life saved, and a life lost.”

Mack put his hands over his face and wept.

25

T
HE DAY OF DEPARTURE CAME QUICKLY
.

One morning without warning all the prisoners who had been sentenced to transportation were told to pick up their possessions and herded into the courtyard.

Mack had few possessions. Other than his clothes, there was just his
Robinson Crusoe
, the broken iron collar he had brought from Heugh, and the fur cloak Lizzie had given him.

In the courtyard a blacksmith shackled them in pairs with heavy leg irons. Mack was humiliated by the fetters. The feel of the cold iron on his ankle brought him very low. He had fought for his freedom and lost the battle, and once again he was in chains like an animal. He hoped the ship would sink and he would drown.

Males and females were not allowed to be chained together. Mack was paired with a filthy old drunk called Mad Barney. Cora made eyes at the blacksmith and got herself paired with Peg.

“I don’t believe Caspar knows we’re leaving today,” Mack said worriedly. “Perhaps they don’t have to notify anyone.”

He looked up and down the line of convicts. There were more than a hundred, he reckoned; around a quarter of them were female, with a sprinkling of children from about nine years upward. Among the men was Sidney Lennox.

Lennox’s fall had caused much glee. No one would trust him since he gave evidence against Peg. The thieves who had disposed of their stolen goods at the Sun tavern now went elsewhere. And although the coal heavers’ strike had been broken, and most of the men were back at work, no one would work for Lennox at any price. He had tried to coerce a woman called Gwen Sixpence into stealing for him, but she and two friends had informed against him for receiving stolen property, and he had duly been convicted. The Jamissons had intervened and saved him from the gallows, but they could not prevent his being transported.

The great wooden doors of the prison swung wide. A squad of eight guards stood outside to escort them. A jailer gave a violent shove to the pair at the front of the line, and slowly they moved out into the busy city street.

“We’re not far from Fleet Street,” Mack said. “It’s possible Caspar may get to know of this.”

“What difference does it make?” said Cora.

“He can bribe the ship’s captain to give us special treatment.”

Mack had learned a little about crossing the Atlantic by questioning prisoners, guards and visitors in Newgate. The one indubitable fact he had learned was that the voyage killed many people. Whether the passengers were slaves, convicts or indentured servants, conditions below decks were lethally unhealthy. Shippers were motivated by money: they crammed as many people as possible into their holds. But captains were mercenary too, and a prisoner with cash for bribes could travel in a cabin.

Londoners stopped what they were doing to watch the convicts make their last, shameful progress through the heart of the city. Some shouted condolences, some jeered and mocked, and a few threw stones or rubbish. Mack asked a friendly-looking woman to take a message to Caspar Gordonson, but she refused. He tried again, twice, with the same result.

The irons slowed them down, and it took more than an hour to shuffle to the waterfront. The river was busy with ships, barges, ferries and rafts, for the strikes were over, crushed by the troops. It was a warm spring morning. Sunlight glinted oft the muddy Thames. A boat was waiting to take them out to their ship, which was anchored in midstream. Mack read its name: “The
Rosebud.”

“Is it a Jamisson ship?” said Cora.

“I think most of the convict ships are.”

As he stepped from the muddy foreshore into the boat, Mack realized this would be the last time he stood on British soil for many years, perhaps forever. He had mixed feelings: fear and apprehension mingled with a certain reckless excitement at the prospect of a new country and a new life.

Boarding the ship was difficult: they had to climb the ladder in pairs with the leg irons on. Peg and Cora managed easily enough, being young and nimble, but Mack had to carry Barney. One pair of men fell into the river. Neither the guards nor the sailors did anything to help them, and they would have drowned if the other prisoners had not reached out and pulled them back into the boat.

The ship was about forty feet long by fifteen wide. Peg commented: “I’ve burgled drawing rooms that were bigger than this, by Christ.” On deck were hens in a coop, a small pigsty, and a tethered goat. On the other side of the ship a magnificent white horse was being hoisted out of a boat with the help of the yardarm used as a crane. A scrawny cat bared its fangs at Mack. He had an impression of coiled ropes and furled sails, a smell of varnish, and a rocking motion underfoot; then they were shoved across the lip of a hatch and down a ladder.

There seemed to be three lower decks. On the first, four sailors were eating their midday meal, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by sacks and chests that presumably contained supplies for the voyage. On the third, all the way down at the foot of the ladder, two men were stacking barrels, hammering wedges between them so that they could not move during the voyage. At the level of the middle deck, which was obviously for the convicts, a sailor roughly pulled Mack and Barney off the ladder and shoved them through a doorway.

There was an odor of tar and vinegar. Mack peered at his surroundings in the gloom. The ceiling was an inch or two above his head: a tall man would have to stoop. It was pierced by two gratings that admitted a little light and air, not from outside but from the enclosed deck above, which itself was lit by open hatches. Along both sides of the hold were wooden racks, six feet wide, one at waist height and one a few inches off the floor.

With horror Mack realized the racks were for the convicts to lie on. They would be spending the voyage on these bare shelves.

They shuffled along the narrow walkway between the rows. The first few berths were already occupied by convicts lying flat, still chained in pairs. They were quiet, stunned by what was happening to them. A sailor directed Peg and Cora to lie next to Mack and Barney, like knives in a drawer. They took their positions, and the sailor roughly shoved them closer together, so that they were touching. Peg was able to sit upright but the grown-ups were not, for there was not enough headroom. The best Mack could do was to prop himself on one elbow.

At the end of the row Mack spotted a large earthenware jar, about two feet high, cone shaped with a broad flat base and a rim about nine inches across. There were three others around the hold. They were the only items of furniture visible, and he realized they were the toilets.

“How long will it take to get to Virginia?” said Peg.

“Seven weeks,” he said. “If we’re lucky.”

Lizzie watched as her trunk was carried into the large cabin at the rear of the
Rosebud
. She and Jay had the owner’s quarters, a bedroom and a day room, and there was more space than she had expected. Everyone talked of the horrors of the transatlantic voyage, but she was determined to make the best of it and try to enjoy the novel experience.

Making the best of things was now her philosophy of life. She could not forget Jay’s betrayal—she still clenched her fists and bit her lip every time she thought of the hollow promise he had made on their wedding day—but she tried always to push it to the back of her mind.

Only a few weeks ago she would have been thrilled by this trip. Going to America was her great ambition: it was one of the reasons she had married Jay. She had anticipated a new life in the colonies, a more free-and-easy, outdoor existence, without petticoats or calling cards, where a woman could get dirt under her fingernails and speak her mind like a man. But the dream had lost some of its glow when she learned of the deal Jay had made. They ought to call the plantation “Twenty Graves,” she thought moodily.

She tried to pretend that Jay was as dear to her as ever, but her body told the truth. When he touched her at night she did not respond as she once had. She would kiss and caress him, but his fingers did not scorch her skin, and his tongue no longer seemed to reach all the way inside to touch her soul. Once upon a time the mere sight of him had made her moist between the legs; now she surreptitiously oiled herself with cold cream before getting into bed, otherwise intercourse hurt her. He always ended up groaning and gasping with pleasure as he spilled his seed inside her, but there was no such culmination for her. Instead she was left with an unfulfilled feeling. Later, when she heard him snoring, she would console herself with her fingers, and then her head would fill with strange images, men wrestling and whores with exposed breasts.

But her life was dominated by thoughts of the baby. Her pregnancy made her disappointments seem less important. She would love her baby without reservation. The child would become her life’s work. And he, or she, would grow up a Virginian.

As she was taking off her hat there was a tap at the cabin door. A wiry man in a blue coat and a three-cornered hat stepped inside and bowed. “Silas Bone, first mate, at your service, Mrs. Jamisson, Mr. Jamisson,” he said.

“Good day to you, Bone,” Jay said stiffly, assuming the dignity of the owner’s son.

“Captain’s compliments to you both,” Bone said. They had already met Captain Parridge, a dour, aloof Kentishman from Rochester. “We’ll get under way at the turn of the tide,” Bone went on. He gave Lizzie a patronizing smile. “However, we’ll be within the Thames estuary for the first day or two, so madam need not worry about bumpy weather just yet.”

Jay said: “Are my horses on board?”

“Yes sir.”

“Let’s have a look at their accommodation.”

“Certainly. Perhaps Mrs. J. will stay and unpack her little bits and pieces.”

Lizzie said: “I’ll come with you. I’d like to take a look around.”

Bone said: “You’ll find it best to stay in your cabin as much as possible on the voyage, Mrs. J. Sailors are rough folk and the weather is rougher.”

Lizzie bridled. “I have no intention of spending the next seven weeks cooped up in this little room,” she snapped. “Lead the way, Mr. Bone.”

“Aye-aye, Mrs. J.”

They stepped out of the cabin and walked along the deck to an open hatch. The mate scampered down a ladder, agile as a monkey. Jay went after him and Lizzie followed. They went to the second of the lower decks. Daylight filtered down from the open hatch, and it was augmented a little by a single lamp on a hook.

Jay’s favorite horses, the two grays, and the birthday present, Blizzard, stood in narrow stalls. Each had a sling under its belly, attached to a beam overhead, so that if it lost its footing in heavy seas it could not fall. There was hay in a manger at the horses’ heads, and the deck below them was sanded to protect their hooves. They were valuable beasts and would be hard to replace in America. They were nervous and Jay petted them for a while, speaking to them soothingly.

Lizzie became impatient and wandered along the deck to where a heavy door stood open. Bone followed her. “I wouldn’t wander around, if I were you, Mrs. J.,” he said. “You might see things that would distress you.”

She ignored him and went forward. She was not squeamish.

“That’s the convict hold ahead,” he said. “It’s no place for a lady.”

He had said the magic words that guaranteed she would persist. She turned around and fixed him with a look. “Mr. Bone, this ship belongs to my father-in-law and I will go where I like. Is that clear?”

“Aye-aye, Mrs. J.”

“And you can call me Mrs. Jamisson.”

“Aye-aye, Mrs. Jamisson.”

She was keen to see the convict hold because McAsh might be there: this was the first convict ship to leave London since his trial. She went forward a couple of paces, ducked her head under a beam, pushed open a door and found herself in the main hold.

It was warm, and there was an oppressive stink of crowded humanity. She stared into the gloom. At first she could see nobody, although she heard the murmur of many voices. She was in a big space filled with what looked like storage racks for barrels. Something moved on the shelf beside her, with a clank like a chain, and she jumped. Then she saw to her horror that what had moved was a human foot in an iron clamp. Someone was lying on the shelf, she saw; no, two people, fettered together at their ankles. As her eyes adjusted she saw another couple lying shoulder to shoulder with the first, then another, and she realized there were dozens of them, packed together on these racks like herrings in a fishmonger’s tray.

Surely, she thought, this was just temporary accommodation, and they would be given proper bunks, at least, for the voyage? Then she realized what a foolish notion that was. Where could such bunks be? This was the main hold, occupying most of the space below deck. There was nowhere else for these wretched people to go. They would spend at least seven weeks lying here in the airless gloom.

“Lizzie Jamisson!” said a voice.

She gave a start. She recognized the Scots accent: it was Mack. She peered into the dark, saying: “Mack—where are you?”

“Here.”

She took a few paces along the narrow walkway between the racks. An arm was stretched out to her, ghostly gray in the twilight. She squeezed Mack’s hard hand. “This is dreadful,” she said. “What can I do?”

“Nothing, now,” he said.

She saw Cora lying beside him and the child, Peg, next to her. At least they were all together. Something in Cora’s expression made Lizzie let go of Mack’s hand. “Perhaps I can make sure you get enough food and water,” she said.

“That would be kind.”

Lizzie could not think of anything else to say. She stood there in silence for a few moments. “I’ll come back down here every day, if I can,” she said at last.

“Thank you.”

She turned and hurried out.

She retraced her steps with an indignant protest on her lips, but when she caught the eye of Silas Bone she saw such a look of scorn on his face that she bit back her words. The convicts were on board and the ship was about to set sail, and nothing she could say would change matters now. A protest would only vindicate Bone’s warning that women should not go below decks.