Authors: Deborah Challinor
Sarah snorted and took a splashing step along the flooded aisle as someone pushed into her from behind.
‘
I
saw it,’ Rachel insisted. ‘Matilda says the phantom crew sail around looking for folk to deliver letters addressed to loved ones long dead, and if you accept one you’ll have terrible misfortune until the day you die.’
‘Let’s hope Matilda was offered one,’ Sarah said.
Rachel looked at her, then giggled.
‘I don’t believe you didn’t see anything,’ Friday said, clutching at a bunk post as the ship rolled steeply.
Sarah shrugged. ‘I don’t believe ghosts exist.’
Friday turned to Harrie. ‘You saw it, though, didn’t you?’
‘I saw something.’ Harrie shuddered. ‘It made the hairs on my arms stand up. Do you really not think ghosts are real?’ she asked Sarah.
‘No, I don’t,’ Sarah said, and turned on the girl behind her. ‘Will you stop pushing me!’
‘Well, move along then, my feet are getting cold,’ the girl complained.
Sarah stood on her tip-toes to see what might be causing the hold-up. She couldn’t. ‘Friday, why aren’t we moving?’
Friday didn’t need to stand on tip-toe. She peered over the heads of the women waiting to get back to their bunks. As always the light was dim and the air still hazy with pipe smoke and the usual greasy emissions from the oil lamps; all she could see was a knot of figures around one of the lower bunks towards the end of the deck.
Less than a minute later they heard: Liz Parker was dead.
August 1829, Southern Ocean
15th of August, 1829
My Dearest Emily
,
It has been several weeks since I have found time to put pen to paper, though you will not notice that of course, receiving these letters in a single large bundle as you will.
It has been a somewhat eventful few weeks, the highlight of which was perhaps the dreadful storm we encountered on the last day of July. I have been extremely busy tending to patients with various sprained and broken limbs since then. The storm itself was harrowing enough, but at its passing it was discovered that one of the prisoners had died. This, as I have recounted to you on several occasions, is not an unexpected occurrence during severe weather events at sea. Folk fall or are struck by unsecured items, crew are swept overboard, but the demise of this woman has left a distinctly unpleasant taste in my mouth. Her name was Liz Parker and, without wishing to speak ill of the dead, she really was rather an unsavoury character.
Most of the prisoners had been up on deck watching the tail end of the storm and when they returned below she
was found wedged against the hull at the rear of a berth, apparently dead from asphyxiation. I did not perform a post-mortem, but I did carry out a thorough external examination of the corpse.
James put down his pen, wondering how much he should tell his wife. He didn’t want to upset her. He
could
have done a post-mortem on Liz Parker but there had been no need for one; it was obvious from the blue tinge around her mouth that she had suffocated and, frankly, given her size, she could easily have been cast face down on the mattress and fatally jammed against the hull during the panic and crush of the storm. It was a cause of death he would have been happy to enter onto the certificate had he not also observed the pair of livid, thumb-shaped bruises on her throat and the grossly ruptured blood vessels in her eyeballs.
I will spare you the unpleasant details, my dear; suffice to say I did find unsettling evidence suggesting she may have been throttled.
Naturally I reported the matter to Captain Holland, together with my supposition that no one of slight stature would possess the strength to choke the life from a neck as bullish as that of the deceased. However, no men were on the prison deck at the time — all were above deck battling the storm.
We are now facing a quandary. Not unsurprisingly, no one has confessed to killing Liz Parker, and no one has helpfully accused another of killing her, so do we hold the entire contingent of prisoners responsible? The captain favours recording her death in the manifest as ‘accidental’, but Captain Holland, as I have already complained to you, has proved himself to be a somewhat weak character. In fact, he refuses to launch an investigation for fear of stirring
up the women when we are so near the end of our journey. The matter, however, falls under his jurisdiction, therefore I must let it rest at this moment, though I most certainly will be providing a full report to Governor Darling when we reach Sydney Town.
Of much lesser importance, but still worthy of note, is another incident that occurred in the dying moments of the storm mentioned above. I did not witness the ‘event’ myself as I was tending a crewman with a fractured forearm in the hospital, but evidently a number of folk on deck saw a vision of the
Flying Dutchman.
I attribute this to mass hysteria brought on by the excitement of the storm coupled with the extraordinary atmospheric conditions we were experiencing at the time. Needless to say, a significant number of the crew swear they saw the mirage too — no sailor worth his salt would admit to not having seen it.
The captain says, all things being well, we will reach port at the end of the first week of September and I for one will be greatly relieved when this voyage comes to an end. The death of the Parker woman coupled with the incident concerning the young girl I recounted in my previous letters have conspired to make this the most unpleasant posting I have endured.
I have talked of this before, my dear, but I think the time has come for me to consider retiring from the navy and seeking a position ashore. You will, I know, be delighted with this notion. As I am still a relatively young man there is plenty of time for me to establish myself in private practice. I am assuming you are still agreeable to the possibility of emigrating to Australia? I am convinced the warmer climate there will far better suit your delicate constitution than the rains and heavy winters of England.
In anticipation, I will make tentative inquiries about private positions while I await my ship back to England.
I miss you and, as always, look forward to the day I am again by your side.
Yours with love,
James
Friday had had a complete and utter gutful. Being stuck on this stinking, rat-ridden boat in the middle of the ocean was sending her mad, she was desperate for a decent drink and would give her left arm for a jug of gin, Rachel was still refusing to say whether she was pregnant or not, and everyone was suspicious and jittery as a result of Liz Parker’s death.
She knew vindictive fingers were being pointed at her, because she was big and strong and everyone knew she’d hated the bitch, but she hadn’t done it — she’d been first up on deck and everyone had witnessed that. But it certainly served Parker right for being such a nasty piece of work. Friday had seen the corpse, though, when they’d carted it up, and it hadn’t been a pretty sight. Parker’s ugly mug had been dark purple, the tongue sticking out and the eyes bulging like a frog’s.
The gabble and accusations had started straight away, naturally, and were still buzzing round the prison deck and making everyone look twice at who they sat next to, but no one was any closer to finding out who’d topped her. Not that anyone seemed to be trying very hard — and not that it mattered: she’d been a mean, trouble-making old tarleather. She wouldn’t be missed and her girls had already settled in with other messes, while a core of tough nuts, namely Becky Hoddle, Louisa Coutts and Beth Greenhill, had shifted their allegiance to Bella Jackson.
But Friday knew prisons, and Parramatta Female Factory was a prison by another name if what she’d heard back in Newgate was true, and there’d be another Liz Parker there without a doubt.
There always was. There was one on the
Isla
, in fact, and a much smarter, nastier and more predatory version than old Liz Parker to boot. So bugger Liz, may she rot in hell: there were much more important things to worry about than her.
Rachel’s fits were getting worse and there was something new now — she wouldn’t stop talking about the ghost ship they’d seen. Or thought they had; Friday still wasn’t sure what it was. She’d shrieked her head off along with the rest of them, but to be honest her poor nerves had been stretched so tight after the storm she would have screamed at almost nothing and perhaps she had. What they’d seen may have been little more than the ‘phenomenon’ the captain had described at muster on the day following the storm — a dense patch of low-lying cloud strangely illuminated by receding lightning — and the way he’d said it had implied they were all fools to imagine they’d encountered anything else. She’d noticed he’d given his crew a good hard look when he’d said it, too. But ghosts were a fact of life, whether Captain Holland — or Sarah — liked it or not.
However Rachel was still going on about it, in between pitching her fits, which seemed to be getting worse every time she had one. Friday was at her wits’ end about how to help her, and feeling more and more frustrated because it was her job to sort it out.
She
was the boss of her little family, which was how she thought of them now. No one else had ever cared about her the way Harrie, Sarah and Rachel did, not even her gin-sodden mother. What would Megsie Woolfe have done about Rachel? Left her to fend for herself, probably, which was all she’d done for Friday.
If Rachel carried on like this much longer people would think she was a lunatic, especially when they got to New South Wales. Were there lunatic asylums in Sydney? Was that where she would end up? And if she
was
pregnant, God — Friday couldn’t think of a worse pickle. It was Keegan’s fault and no doubt that evil cow Bella’s as well, and every time she thought about Keegan lounging in his
comfortable cabin calmly waiting to walk off the ship and into his new, free life, her fists clenched and she felt her blood pounding in her head. It was eating a hole in her — Rachel’s crumbling health, the failure to make Keegan pay, being stuck on this ship — all of it.
And there were still
weeks
to go before they reached New South Wales.
Hester Seaton was
thoroughly
sick of attempting to teach slowwitted and, frankly, wilfully idle convict women to read and write. She had tried her utmost and there still remained a good proportion who could not even string together enough letters to form their own names. Really, she did wonder whether some were only attending her school for letters to avoid daily chores or to fill in time. And they were paying even less attention now that there were glimpses of land to be had from time to time, and other signs that they were finally, after all these months at sea, nearing their destination.
Of course — she had to be truthful — a handful were doing remarkably well and she must assume that those who had chosen not to attend at all could already read and write, and there were a surprising number of those. But really, the novelty of bringing the gift of education to the underprivileged was wearing off and she had in fact tired of it some time earlier. A temporary effect relating to the confines of shipboard life, no doubt. Also, the atmosphere had been somewhat tense since the unfortunate incident involving Gabriel Keegan. Once her feet were back on terra firma and any taint of scandal left behind on the
Isla
and her daughters as far away from Mr Keegan as possible, she would feel differently, she was sure.
Thank the Lord that in just over two and a half weeks, if Captain Holland’s calculations were correct, they would be dropping anchor in Sydney Cove.
Harrie took off her apron and dropped it into the laundry hamper, grateful she didn’t have to wash it herself; one of the children had been sick on it and the vomit had been a hideous yellow colour and eye-wateringly smelly. Her shift was over and she was very tired. As she crossed the floor Mr Downey came out of his cubicle.
‘Harrie, I have something for you.’ He held out a letter folded and sealed with wax.
Nonplussed, she looked at it but didn’t take it. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a recommendation.’
‘Oh. What for?’
‘I thought it might help you obtain a suitable assignment. I don’t make a practice of this, but you really are very good with children, and in the hospital in general.’ He flushed slightly. ‘I thought it might help you.’
Harrie, blushing herself, took the letter and ducked her head. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Downey. I’m very grateful.’
‘Yes, well.’ He cleared his throat, embarrassed. ‘I’m aware that female convicts aren’t always assigned to positions that make the most of their vocational strengths. It would be a shame if you couldn’t use yours.’
Harrie thought so, too. She really wanted an assignment where she could sew and embroider and generally use her needlework skills.
‘Well,’ Mr Downey said again. ‘I’ll take this opportunity to wish you the very best of luck now, Harrie, as things will become quite hectic in the next two weeks before we go into harbour. I’ve enjoyed having you as my assistant. I hope things go well for you. I’ve often wondered…’
Harrie waited, but he didn’t finish, and looked even more embarrassed.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘good luck. I’ve also noted where I’ll be lodging for the month before my ship sails, which is the King Hotel
on King Street. If you need help, that is. I mean, if Rachel should require assistance, you’ll know where to send word and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you.’
As she crossed the waistdeck she tucked the letter down her blouse, out of sight. It had been a very thoughtful and generous thing for him to do, but she wasn’t sure she wanted a testimonial from him. It would give her an advantage over Friday and Sarah and Rachel when it came time for them to be assigned, and she didn’t want that. She wanted them to stay together. Which was silly, she knew, because from what they’d heard it was very unlikely they
would
be assigned together, but still, it felt wrong. If she used it, or even thought about using it, it would feel like a betrayal. Mr Downey wouldn’t even think about a thing like that.
Not that it looked like Rachel would be assigned. Oh, she still had her good days, but there were certainly bad days, too. What happened to girls who weren’t fit enough to be sent out? If her condition worsened, she might even be confined to the Factory hospital, which, Harrie was sure, would be nowhere near as clean or orderly as Mr Downey’s. And why would the silly girl not admit to being pregnant? Harrie was sure now she was. Sometimes she felt like taking Rachel by the ears and giving her head a thoroughly good rattle just to wake her up.
Friday, too, was in a foul mood, and she wouldn’t talk to anyone either. Well, she would, but not about what was upsetting her. Harrie knew she was worried about Rachel and suspected she felt responsible, though God knew why; what had happened hadn’t been Friday’s fault. And Harrie knew from their time in Newgate that when Friday was out of sorts she drank heavily, except her means of obtaining alcohol on the
Isla
had been cut off, except for a tiny ration Harrie thought she might be scrounging from Joel Meek, which wasn’t enough, not for Friday. Harrie really wasn’t looking forward to what might happen when they finally arrived at
Sydney Town, because if Friday could get her hands on drink there, she most certainly would.