Behind the Sun (22 page)

He sighed and closed the bible, defeated by the size of the print. He didn’t normally read it just for fun, but was so bored he’d been driven to it. He wished he’d brought more books, and wondered if the surgeon had any worth reading. He doubted Gabriel Keegan did, as he didn’t seem the bookish sort, and he thought it a safe bet
that whatever Reverend Seaton might have in his cabin wouldn’t be any more interesting than his bible.

He opened his little round cabin window and stared out at the undulating horizon for a few minutes, then turned his attention back to his desk, unscrewed the lid from his ink bottle, dipped his pen and began to write.

Matthew put down his pen and wondered about the next bit. His mother had been distinctly upset when he’d told her he would be
travelling to New South Wales on a convict ship, even though the prisoners would all be women. Perhaps he ought to be careful what he wrote. On the other hand, she’d been on at him to find himself a wife since he’d turned twenty-one, so perhaps she would be pleased.

This last bit was pure obfuscation, of course, but his mother would have an absolute conniption if she knew her precious youngest son had his eye on a convict girl. He knew in his heart it was immense folly to even mention Harriet, but he couldn’t help it — he had to say something to someone. He could just imagine his mother’s questions: What does Harriet Clarke’s father do? Who are her mother’s people? How did they make their money? He added:

He didn’t add that at least once a week the games and dancing came to an abrupt end due to fighting as the result of what appeared from the vantage point of the foredeck to be perceived encroachment over invisible lines delineating the different factions’ deck spaces.
And what he’d written still didn’t make the convict women look like a suitable cohort from which to draw a bride, not by a long shot and no matter how fancy their dance steps. He crossed out ‘skilfully’.

And he hadn’t actually spoken to Harriet Clarke at all. Captain Holland had made it very clear at the beginning of the voyage that, on his ship at least, fee-paying passengers would not be mixing with those travelling courtesy of the Crown and vice versa, but he, Matthew, had watched her every night when the women came up on deck. Of them all, she stood out as the most attractive and certainly the most appealing. She was the prettiest, the sweetest, and she possessed genuine integrity. Though, to be honest, how he knew that just by observing her from afar, he wasn’t sure. He knew she assisted James Downey in the hospital, because he’d gone in there one day looking for him and had seen her, so he’d asked the surgeon her name, and why she was being transported. He was sure Mr Downey thought he was unhinged for wanting to know, but he’d been relieved to discover Harriet Clarke was only a thief, and not an axe murderer or something really heinous. That could be a little difficult to get past his mother.

He blotted a smear, then set aside the letter to dry. He had a pile of letters to send now, and was beginning to find it difficult to manufacture things to write about. One day was blurring into the
next, becoming as smudged as the words in his correspondence. He actually envied the women on the prison deck, with all their daily chores. Hard work, yes, but at least they had something to do. Gabriel Keegan somehow managed to sleep much of the day away; how, Matthew didn’t know, not with all the banging and shouting going on from the crew. Perhaps he would ask the captain if he could be of assistance in some capacity. He’d sailed before — not on a ship as seagoing as this, of course, just yachting off the Devon coast when he was a youth — so he wasn’t a complete novice.

Anything would be better than staring out of the window all day, waiting for Harriet Clarke to come out and dance.

Harrie could see that Mr Downey was writing his notes, so she tried not to disturb him as she descended the ladder into the hospital.

‘Good morning, Harrie.’

Damn. ‘Good morning, Mr Downey.’

‘Sleep well?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Harrie lied. No one had been sleeping particularly well on the prison deck since the
Isla
had set sail. It was too noisy, too smelly and airless, and too…rolly.

‘Have you spoken to Lil?’

‘No, she went straight to her bunk.’

Mr Downey put away his writing things. ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to lance young Alfie Byatt’s boil this morning after all.’

Harrie wrinkled her nose and moved to the cupboard where the surgical instruments were kept. ‘Have you told him?’

‘Yes, and he isn’t very happy about it, are you lad?’ Mr Downey said, crossing to Alfie’s bed.

Alfie was six and had a colossal boil in the crease of his left buttock. His bottom lip quivering, he eyed the surgeon reproachfully before pulling the blanket up over his face.

‘Where’s his ma?’ Harrie set out a tray containing a scalpel, a curette, a small trocar and squares of cut lint.

‘She said she’d rather not watch.’

Harrie rolled her eyes. ‘Well, that’s helpful, isn’t it?’ she said to Alfie cheerfully, sliding the blanket off his head. ‘Come on, love, turn over, there’s a good boy.’

‘Will it hurt?’ Alfie asked tremulously.

‘It will, but not for long, I promise. And you’ll feel so much better afterwards.’

Beginning to cry, Alfie wriggled over onto his stomach. Harrie gently pulled down the ragged but freshly washed breeks he was wearing. He was so undernourished his backside was almost nonexistent, the boil a hard, shiny, headless mass whose angry redness spread from one side of his skinny buttock to the other. Holding her hand an inch above it, Harrie felt its poisonous heat. She winced and shared a worried glance with Mr Downey.

While he prepared his instruments, she took hold of Alfie’s hands and said conversationally, ‘Do you know, Alfie, I once had a boil on my bum the exact size and shape of an apple and damson pie?’

Alfie stopped crying.

‘I was twelve at the time. It was terrible. I couldn’t sit down for weeks. One day my ma had a look at it and do you know? It really was an apple and damson pie! Imagine that!’

‘On ya bum?’ Alfie said, amazed.

‘Yes, and all the rats and mice in the house started scampering around after me trying to snatch a bite.’

Mr Downey smiled.

‘Did ya give it them?’

‘No, I did not!’

‘How’d ya get rid of it then?’ Alfie suddenly shrieked as Mr Downey poked the tip of a scalpel into the centre of the boil.

Harrie gripped his hands tighter as a great, foul stream of yellow-green pus poured from the wound, accompanied by the most revolting stink.

‘I hung my bum out the window and let the blackbirds have it.’

Alfie was crying again but he still managed a giggle. ‘That’s never true.’

Mr Downey took a piece of lint in each hand and pressed on the boil, making Alfie scream again and forcing out more pus and a big, hard white core. The smell was almost unbearable.

‘It is!’ Harrie insisted. ‘And the nits me and my brother and sisters used to get! They were so big we used to send them up the bakehouse to collect our loaf of a morning!’

‘Our nits were bigger,’ Alfie said, jerking as Mr Downey used the curette to scrape the last of the pus from the wound. ‘We used to ride our nits round Hyde Park!’ He giggled some more, delighted with his own wit.

‘Is that so? Harrie said. ‘Well,
ours
were so big the navy put masts on them and sailed them to China!’

Mr Downey burst out laughing.

Alfie lifted his head and strained to peer over his shoulder at his backside, forcing a thin trickle of watery blood from the wound. ‘Sir, is it all out?’

‘For the time being. Harrie, more lint please.’

James watched her as she returned to the supply cupboard, dropping the used lint into a bucket on the way. He liked that the way she did things was so neat and economical. She even moved tidily. She never wasted energy making a mess, so she seldom had to clean up after herself, though she never complained about cleaning up other people’s messes, and God knew there were plenty of those.

He also liked the soft hint of down on her face, her small waist and the swell of her breasts beneath the hideous prison blouse, but he tried very hard not to think about those things. He would be mortified if she knew, or ever caught him looking at her. He would be mortified if anyone knew.

‘Could a nit swim all the way to China, but?’ Alfie mumbled, yawning.

‘No, you’d really have to rely on the sails, I expect,’ James said.

A poultice of carbolic acid was applied to Alfie’s boil to help draw out any remaining poison, though the wound would have to be cleaned again tomorrow.

‘Your family sounds very colourful,’ James said after Alfie had fallen into the first pain-free sleep he’d had in over a week. ‘Was that true, about the apple and damson pie?’

Harrie, tidying away the surgical instruments, gave him an amused look. ‘Of course not. It was pear and cinnamon.’

Something was wrong with Bella Jackson; there was a horrendous, blood-curdling screeching coming from behind her curtain.

It was just after breakfast and as usual Bella had eaten hers in her little partitioned compartment. If she appeared at all during the day, it was rarely until later in the morning after all the chores had been done. Everyone had long given up complaining about her not pulling her weight as one of her girls always stepped in when her name appeared on the roster. After all, as Harrie repeatedly and patiently remarked at the conclusion of Friday’s frequent tirades every time it happened, it didn’t really matter who did the work, as long as it got done. Eventually even Friday came to see the arrangement as acceptable, declaring that Bella was such a slaggard she wouldn’t do the job properly and they’d all suffer for it anyway.

The breakfast dishes had gone up, the table had been scrubbed, the women rostered to holystone the prison deck were standing by, and two crewmen were waiting to come through with the swinging stove to fumigate the space and sprinkle chloride of lime throughout. Everyone else was moving out, up to the tubs on deck to wash the breakfast dishes, or on to other rostered duties. It was noisy and chaotic, but Bella’s shrieks froze everyone.

‘What in God’s name is she doing in there?’ Friday peered along the prison deck, a heap of bedding in her arms.

Two of Bella’s girls disappeared into her compartment; Bella let out a stream of invective at the top of her voice and they reappeared at great speed, flapping their hands, looking hugely panicked. A missile flew out of the compartment after them and shattered against a post, its contents splattering everywhere. One of the girls raced for the water closets, returning a moment later with a bucket; hefting it onto her shoulder, she rushed it into the compartment. Another splash could be heard and the screaming stopped abruptly.

There was a moment of silence.

Then Bella’s voice barked: ‘You fucking
whore
!’

‘I hope that wasn’t the arse-wiping bucket,’ Friday said, and laughed so hard she dropped her armful of linen and had to sit down. Her loud hoots rolled down the prison deck and no doubt straight into the water-drenched ears of Bella Jackson.

Smirking, Sarah said, ‘That’s not very nice, Friday.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Harrie agreed. ‘I wonder if she needs help?’

‘So what if she does?’ Friday replied. ‘She’s got her own flunkies.’ She giggled again. ‘She’s got a worse mouth on her than I have. It was funny, though, wasn’t it? Look, Janie’s just about having kittens.’

They all looked at Janie, doubled over on the lower bunk, her face almost on her knees.

‘No, it’s not kittens,’ she said, her voice strained.

Friday stopped laughing. ‘Oh Christ, is it coming?’

Rachel’s face lit up. ‘Ooooh, the
baby
!’

‘I’ll get Mr Downey,’ Rachel said quickly and disappeared.

‘
Is
it coming?’ Harrie asked, and felt her insides swoop in a rush of excitement and fright when Janie nodded. ‘Are you sure?’

‘’Course I’m sure! It’s me bloody third, I know what it feels like.’

Harrie opened her mouth then closed it again; Janie was barely older than she was herself. She felt slightly shocked, though she’d thought she was beyond shocking by now. ‘What can I do?’

‘Nothing yet, ta.’ Janie rolled over onto her side. ‘Have you done a birthing before?’

‘Not really. I helped the midwife when my ma had my sisters and brother. But Lil Foster’s done plenty.’ A horrible suspicion crept over Harrie.

‘So you have, then.’

‘No! All I did was hold Ma’s hand and help her push and then swaddle the babes. I wasn’t even that grown up!’

‘Well, I want you to do it,’ Janie said flatly. ‘You’ve got good little hands. Lil can help. I don’t want some cove looking up me minge. It’s women’s business, birthing.’

Harrie felt suddenly bilious with nerves. She couldn’t birth a baby; she was a sempstress with a knack for fancy needlework, not a midwife. ‘But —’

‘Don’t argue,’ Janie snapped. ‘I’ve made up me mind.
Ow!
’ She curled up again, in the grip of another spasm.

James Downey appeared. ‘Have your waters broken?’ he asked without preamble.

Janie nodded.

‘How long have you been having the pains?’

‘Since before sun-up.’

‘Before
dawn
!’ Harrie exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’

Janie shrugged. ‘Me last one took ten hours to turn up. What’s the rush?’ She grimaced again. ‘Though this one might be coming a
bit
faster.’

‘I’d like you to deliver in the hospital, Janie, if you don’t mind,’ Mr Downey said. ‘It’s up to you who you choose to attend you. I will be on hand if necessary.’

Harrie stared at James Downey with open admiration, then flushed as he caught her looking at him. How thoughtful and courteous! On the single occasion her ma had been able to afford a visit from a doctor, the ill-tempered bugger had accused her of
being stupid and superstitious because she had tied blue beads in the little ones’ hair to keep witches away, told her they all had bad coughs when she already knew that, offered no palliative, and then charged her a crown for the privilege. And here was the surgeon superintendent giving Janie a choice as to who she wanted to deliver her baby, including
himself
, for absolutely no fee at all!

‘Harrie’s doing the deed. She’s already said so.’

Harrie cringed as Mr Downey said, ‘I didn’t realise you had midwifery skills, Harrie. That’s marvellous. Why didn’t you say so?’

‘I —’ Harrie began.

‘Can’t wait,’ Janie finished for her, ‘and neither can I. Help me get up them steps. I’m starting to feel like there’s a watermelon stuck in me fanny.’

‘Er, no, not the ladder. I’ll open the connecting door,’ James Downey said, and hurried off.

Janie gave birth to a healthy girl she named Rosie Isla Harriet Braine at twenty minutes past eleven that morning. Nothing went wrong and Harrie excelled herself, although her heart didn’t stop pounding until well after the baby had been wiped down and swaddled and the afterbirth massaged out of Janie. Lil helped only minimally and James wasn’t needed at all.

‘See, I told you you’d be good at it,’ Janie said as she sat up in the narrow hospital bed sipping noisily from a mug of black tea. It wasn’t the bottle of stout all nursing mothers were allowed daily to enrich their milk, because hers hadn’t come in yet, but it was better than nothing. The baby lay sleeping in a cradle nearby, because Mr Downey had said, for some strange reason, she wasn’t to sleep in the bed with Janie, but she was settled and seemed content.

Harrie tucked in Janie’s blanket. ‘Janie?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Where are your other children?’

‘The first one’s with me ma now and the second one died.’

‘Oh.’ Harrie couldn’t think of anything else to say. It was so awfully sad.

Lil Foster bustled over, looking intrigued. ‘You’ll never guess who’s gone in to see Mr Downey.’

‘Bella Jackson,’ Janie said.

Lil looked deflated. ‘Yes, actually. Anyway, I couldn’t help overhearing —’

‘With your great flappy ear against the curtain,’ Janie added. ‘You know,’ Lil said, ‘having a baby hasn’t done anything to fix your smart mouth, Janie Braine.’

Janie took a last swig of her tea. ‘No, it didn’t last time, either.’

‘She was asking for something to put on
burns
.’

Harrie and Janie looked at each other.

‘Probably smoking those fancy little cigars of hers again,’ Janie said.

‘But you don’t burn yourself that badly from
cigars
, do you?’ Harrie said. ‘And I didn’t smell tobacco this morning, did you?’

‘No. Maybe she was counting her piles of money and they caught fire. That’ll teach her.’

‘What piles of money?’ Harrie asked.

‘The money she gets from standing over them girls.’ Janie laughed at the expression on Harrie’s face. ‘Honestly, Harrie, you’re a right gulpy sometimes. She organises them — you didn’t think she wasn’t taking any blunt off them, did you? That’s what a bawd does. How else would she make a living?’

‘No, I knew. Friday said — I just didn’t think it would be that much. You know, paper money.’

‘Well, it probably isn’t paper money. I just said that. It’d be coin.’

‘But coin wouldn’t burn.’

Janie sighed. ‘Christ, Harrie, why do you always have to be such a pennant?’

‘I think you mean pedant. And I thought she’d take just a small percentage of what they’re earning. Friday says it’s half. That’s seems a lot.’

‘It’s more than that,’ Lil said. ‘My friend Josie says it’s close to two-thirds. Bella must have a hell of a hold over them. Or be promising them the moon once we get to New South Wales.’ She frowned. ‘That prick Amos Furniss’ll have something to do with it, I’d put money on it.’

Two-thirds seemed an enormous amount of money to give up. To Harrie it didn’t seem fair at all, given what the women had to do to earn it. ‘You’re not saying Friday works for Bella, though?’ Harrie thought this extremely unlikely, but she’d never actually asked Friday about her business arrangements.

Janie snorted. ‘You know Friday better than that. What do you think?’

Lil said, ‘Josie says Friday gets more cullies than any of them. She says it’s a wonder she can sit down of a morning.’ She and Janie tittered, but Harrie didn’t. ‘And Bella hates it.’

‘Because Friday works on her own and Bella doesn’t get any of the money?’ Harrie asked.

‘Partly. And because she’s telling the girls they’re being cheated. And now they’re complaining to Bella and she wants revenge.’

She was late, which was irritating as he’d expressly requested in his note that she meet with him on time. He would give her another ten minutes, then go below. He’d had his evening’s shag, his cock was ominously itchy and he wanted to get to his cabin to wash it. You couldn’t be too careful with this calibre of whore.

He leant on the rail and stared down into the water as the
Isla
cut through a carpet of luminous plankton, the bow waves a startlingly bright iridescent blue. And suddenly she was there, smelling faintly of tobacco and…jasmine perhaps?

‘Good evening, Mr Keegan.’

He turned to face her. She was almost as tall as he was, but too thin for his liking, no meat on her at all. And far too old. She had a beaded black muslin shawl draped over her head and pulled across her mouth, as though she didn’t want to be recognised. Stupid cow — everyone knew everyone on a ship this small.

‘Mrs Jackson. Thank you for meeting with me.’

She inclined her head in acknowledgment. ‘Miss Jackson. I am not a married woman. You wish to speak with me.’

It was a statement, not a question. She was very self-assured. Her rings looked expensive and she appeared to have applied the face paint she wore with a garden trowel, but you expected that from women who worked in her profession. In fact, her skin was deathly white and her eyes seemed nothing more than sooty smears, the pupils mere glints, or perhaps that was just the effect of the shadows and the moonlight.

‘Yes, I do. I understand these women who come up on deck at night work for you.’

‘Most of them do, yes.’

‘I am interested in one girl in particular, although I’ve never seen her up here after dark. I had hoped you might be in a position to procure her services for me.’

Bella Jackson withdrew a silver case from the pocket of her jacket, opened it and offered him one of the new slender cigars. He declined and she put the case away. He was impressed: he’d expected a clay pipe.

‘That will depend on the girl, Mr Keegan, not me.’

‘I’m rather assuming it will depend on the money.’

‘Perhaps. What is this girl’s name?’

Keegan told her. ‘Are you aware of her?’

Bella Jackson smiled. ‘As it happens I am. And I have noted your interest previously. The foredeck offers a fortuitous vantage point.’

‘It does.’

‘It will cost you.’

‘I’m sure it will. What’s your price? More to the point, what’s hers?’

‘I don’t know if she has one. That will be your business to negotiate. She is not to my knowledge a whore. My price, to deliver her to you, will be ten pounds.’

‘Christ, that’s steep.’

‘For a girl who looks like that and is quite possibly a virgin? I don’t think so, Mr Keegan. Of course, if you’re not interested…’ She turned to leave.

‘Wait. Wait, yes, I am interested.’

‘Then I will require payment now.’

Keegan shook his head as he dug out his purse — he might have known she’d demand the money up front. He withdrew a ten-pound note and gave it to her. She took it and slipped it away somewhere. As she did, her shawl caught on one of her rings and slid from her face, revealing a large scab on her right jaw from her ear to her chin. A burn? Some disgusting disease of the skin? Snatching at the shawl she hastily covered herself again.

‘When do you want her?’ she said.

Keegan felt his cock twitch. ‘As soon as possible. And I want her in my cabin.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. I may have to deliver her under false pretences.’

‘You mean, she won’t know why she’s coming to see me?’

‘Possibly not.’

Keegan smiled to himself. ‘Well, she’ll soon find out, won’t she?’

Giggling madly, Rachel whirled round and round, her hair flying and her prison skirt whirling out like a giant mushroom. All around her women clapped and danced to the sailors’ fiddle, washboard, tin whistle and tub drum quartet, whooping it up and stamping their feet on the deck in time to the scratchy beat. Paired off in manless couples, they jigged and reeled energetically, sweating in the cooling
evening air, or jumped about on their own, carried away by the music and the opportunity to sing lustily and shout.

Rachel was bursting for a wee, but like a barely pot-trained two-year-old, she didn’t want to go below in case she missed something. But the more she danced the more she needed to empty her bladder, and very soon she was going to embarrass herself. Reluctantly, she made her way towards the prison deck hatch.