SYDNEY COVE, APRIL 1795
Nanberry had sailed away again, climbing up the ship’s rigging as though he had done it all his life, with a new gap between his teeth and a tattoo of a ship on his arm.
She waved him off, down at the harbour, carrying Andrew in her arms. The baby held up his chubby hand to wave farewell to his foster brother as the ship’s boat pulled out from the shore. Now she walked slowly back up the hill.
The house would feel empty. It had been so good to have someone to cook for, to look after while his mouth and face healed. Silly boy, to go and do a native trick like that. And that tattoo, something else men did just to show they could bear the pain. Let them bear a child and they’d know all about pain, with no need for knocking out teeth or needles and dye.
She smiled down at her son, peering over her shoulder at the harbour’s bustle, then quickly wiped the smile away, looking down at the ground in case any man thought the smile was encouragement. There was no protection for a woman in New South Wales, not from convicts or soldiers of the Rum Corps. The officers of the Rum Corps (not that anyone called them that when they could hear it) had come out at the same time as she had, to serve in the colony. But the only ones they had served were themselves. They did what they wanted, took what they wanted. They hanged anyone who tried to stop them. It was hard, living by herself, putting the bolts up on the doors and shutters at night in case some drunken soldiers tried to get in; making sure no light showed to let them think a woman might be inside.
Big Lon still worked the garden each day, growing the fresh vegetables and fruit the Surgeon believed to be so important to a child’s health. He chopped their wood and brought them water, but he went back to the barracks each night. She couldn’t see Big Lon protecting her and her son from anyone either.
But at least she had money — the rent from a land grant the Acting Governor had given the Surgeon. The tenant sent meat and milk once a week as well. Already sea chests had arrived for her. Each chest contained coins in a purse hidden in bolts of cloth for clothes and sheets — good sensible linen and flannel. There had been a toy horse for Andrew and a letter in each chest that took her a day to read, for she wouldn’t ask anyone else to read her out something so private.
The chests and letters had come from the Cape. In a few months he’d reach England, and in another year perhaps they’d hear from him again, that he had reached port safely. He said that he was safe and well; he said to kiss the child from him; and he said he was hers, always affectionately. No word of love. But he was keeping his promise, caring for them. She was sure he always would.
But a woman needed more than linen and flannel, or even silk if it had ever occurred to him to send it. She’d had a silk scarf once, the one that the Master had given her back in England, the one he had claimed she’d stolen. The one that had sent her here …
Yes, a woman needed more than silk. More than love, even. The Surgeon had been the first man to talk to her about why the birds flew north in winter, or how men got scurvy. Her world had been so small, survival and nothing else. He had opened a window to a wider life, but now it was shut again.
Yells floated across from the marketplace just up from the harbour. A crowd had grown, jeering men and toothless grinning women. She shuddered, and turned Andrew’s face away, in case he caught sight of whatever they were watching. A flogging, perhaps, or a public hanging. The crowds loved sights like that.
She had just started down the track to the house when the breeze caught the words. ‘And what am I offered for this fine wench then? Six more years she got to serve. A bit o’ feeding and she’ll be good as new …’
Her skin grew cold. They were auctioning the women off the latest ship, the one that had brought her sea chest and letter. The Rum Corps officers had first pick, of course, inspecting the women as they lined up on deck, taking the youngest and plumpest and prettiest. The officers’ friends could choose next, also paying nothing for the privilege. The other women were auctioned to whoever would pay the highest price.
‘No more’n that?’ The auctioneer’s voice was scornful. ‘Sold then, for a pint o’ rum to the cove with the withered hand. And I bet she’ll warm it up for you, eh? Now the next wench is a right good piece. Don’t laugh now, me dearies. She may be tiny but she’s a good worker, and freshly widowed, so she knows what to do, eh?’ The crowd snickered.
‘The natives killed her husband just ten days ago and …’ The woman let out a cry of anguish.
‘Maria!’ Rachel whirled around and began to run, holding Andrew against her. Her arms ached but she didn’t dare put him down.
How could Maria end up at the auction? A widow, the man had said. Maria was still a convict. If her husband had died the officers must have decided she was worth selling. Legal or not, there was no way to stop them …
Rachel struggled to get closer; the crowd was too thick. But she could see the auctioneer standing on the back of the cart and Maria next to him. She looked so small. She had always been tiny, but now her face was thin and pinched, with shadows under her eyes like they’d been smudged with charcoal. Yet even here she looked neat, her dress worn but well mended.
‘Just look at her! She can sew and clean, can’t you, lovey? And she’s a right good cook. She can sow yer barley and shuck yer corn, as well as keep you warm at nights.’
‘She ain’t big enough to keep a man warm!’ The man next to Rachel gave a gap-toothed grin, as though it was the wittiest thing he’d ever said. Which she supposed it might have been.
Maria stared blankly at the crowd. Her eyes were empty.
‘Ah, the little ones have more fire in them. You take it from one who knows.’ The auctioneer gave a wink. ‘Whatever you pays for her you’ll make back again. She could cook for a whole tavern. You could hire her out by day and have her back each night. Or hire her out all night too! Now, who’ll start the bidding? You, sir?’
‘Threepence!’
The auctioneer snorted. Maria made no sign that she had even heard.
‘One pint o’ rum!’
‘One pint! Do I have two?’
‘Two pints!’ It was a young man with beefy arms and a rough tattoo of a mermaid on his forearm.
‘I’m offered two. Who’ll make it three? Oh, for a taste of this young lady’s pie. She’ll scrub for you, cook for you, never mind the rest of it —’
‘Ten shillings!’ Rachel had to yell over the noise. It was all she had. But she couldn’t let Maria be sold like this. If only the Surgeon was here, she thought. He would never let this happen. But there was no one to help her now.
‘Ten shillings! Now that’s more like it.’ The auctioneer nodded to her. Rachel flushed, lowering her head, clutching Andrew to her. It was dangerous to be noticed, but impossible not to help.
She glanced up again. Maria peered around, showing the first signs of life. Rachel held up her hand briefly so she could see it. Maria bit her lip, hope washing across her face.
‘Ten shillings and sixpence!’
It was from a soldier, his red coat stained with sweat under the arms. He must have decided Maria could be sold for more, if someone was bidding that much for her.
Rachel tried to calculate. She could sell her spare dresses. ‘Twelve shillings.’
‘Twelve and sixpence.’
The soldier leered at her. All at once Rachel realised what he was doing.
He was determined to beat her bid. He had no intention of paying any money. He could bid any sum he wanted to. No one could force a member of the Rum Corps to pay their debts.
And there was no way she could bid more.
Maria knew it. Rachel saw her shoulders droop, and the same blank look descend on her face. Maria had another six years to serve. She was so small, so thin. If a man worked her hard could she last that long? There was no surety he would even let her go when her time was served. Many women were kept bound as long as the man they served wanted them. The courts were run by the Rum Corps too. Impossible to expect justice there, especially for a woman.
‘A guinea!’ It was a new voice, vaguely familiar. Rachel peered across the crowd. She knew that face! It was the ship’s carpenter she had met years before, after church. What was his name again? Mr Moore. She flushed. He had seemed such a good man. Now he was bidding for a woman, like all the others.
‘Ten guineas!’ the soldier bid again, his grin even wider. He lifted a stone jug from the ground and took a swig. The crowd roared with laughter, aware of the joke now. Ten guineas was an enormous sum, months of wages. Ten guineas for a woman like this — impossible, incredible. He may as well have bid a hundred pounds.
Rachel looked across at Mr Moore again. He frowned, staring at Maria on the cart.
‘Well, sir? Another bid?’
Mr Moore shook his head.
‘Sold then, to the officer over there.’
The crowd cheered. The auctioneer shoved Maria over to the edge of the cart. The soldier elbowed his way forward and lifted Maria down like a sack of potatoes. ‘There’s nothing to her! I want me money back!’
The crowd shouted with laughter again. There would be no money paid, no money given back. It was a joke, a joke for all of them.
Except for Maria, thought Rachel. She tried to think what to do. One of the surgeons at the hospital might help her. They might even be able to get Maria assigned to someone else. Mrs Macarthur, maybe. If she told Mrs Macarthur how good Maria was with her needle she might want her as a maid. She’d be safe there, at least …
There was no sign of Maria now, nor of the soldier or Mr Moore. The crowd was too thick. Nor was there any point pleading with the soldier, not drunk as he was.
Andrew began to whimper, afraid of all the noise. She soothed him automatically, patting his back as she held him against her shoulder. She began to walk away, back towards the house, planning her next move …
‘Mistress Turner!’
She looked back. Mr Moore strode down the road, carrying a ragged bundle under one arm. The other hand held Maria’s. He let the hand go as Rachel ran to her, hugged her. ‘I was so afraid for you! I’m sorry, so sorry, I had no idea. I offered all I could …’
Maria said nothing, but clung to her, Andrew squashed between them. He struggled to get down. Rachel lowered him, his hand held tight in hers, then looked at Mr Moore. She had forgotten how big he was, his shoulders straining at his jacket. ‘Sir …’ She didn’t know what else to say. How did he come to have Maria here, when the soldier outbid him?
His lips narrowed. ‘The ruffian back there was glad enough to take a guinea once he’d had his fun.’
‘So you bought her?’
‘A man does not buy another life, Mistress Turner. All men are equal in the sight of God. But it seems your friend has been assigned to me now, yes.’ He bowed, first to Rachel and then to Maria. ‘I think it best if she stays with you.’
She had to thank him, but still she could find no words. Maria was shaking as though she would collapse at any moment. Andrew fidgeted, pulling at her hand, eager for his dinner. And any moment the crowd might find them here and gather for further fun.
She curtseyed quickly, then put her arm around Maria. She bent to pick up Andrew, but Mr Moore had already picked him up. She waited for the boy to put out his arms to her, but instead he laughed as Mr Moore hoisted him onto his broad shoulders. ‘I will see you to your door.’
She curtseyed again, as best she could while still holding Maria. The way to their house had never seemed so long. She took the key from the pocket of her apron, and unlocked the door — the Surgeon had paid for a lock the year before — and ushered Maria inside.
Should she ask him in? She flushed. Would he require … payment … for his favour? But he had already lifted Andrew down.
‘Thank you —’ she began.
He bowed. ‘I am glad I could be of service.’
She hurried in to Maria as he strode back up the street.