It took Francis a couple of days to adjust his balance to the ever-shifting liquid beneath the ship. The nausea Noah Baines had described eluded him, for his stomach gave him no trouble whatsoever.
That his eldest brother had signed him on as the ship’s doctor gave him plenty to do. The sea air caused him to sleep deeply. He’d never been to sea before and the vast emptiness of the ocean and sky filled him with awe. Nothing remained still. The sea reared into hills that rapidly became chasms, sloped glassily sideways or erupted into slapping foam.
The skyscape changed. Clouds piled up on the horizon, or sometimes descended into thick mist to hover above the surface of the water. The ship sailed blindly in the clinging wetness. The rigging dripped and moisture streamed down the sails. Sometimes, the clouds were bruised, bleeding liquid gold as the sun went down.
The ship’s owner and master, Captain McPhee, was a Scot. A man of grizzled and weather-beaten appearance, he’d been at sea since boyhood and stood on ceremony for no one.
The Adriana had once been a blackbirder, picking up slaves from the native traders of the fever coast and selling them on to the sugar plantation owners in the West Indies. McPhee, second mate on her at the time, had used a legacy to buy the ship from the previous owner. She’d served him well despite her age, and had rewarded his initial outlay with a profit.
Hard as he was, the slave trade had sickened him. Now the Adriana carried convicts, which wasn’t much better except it was legitimate trade, so his conscience sat easier on his shoulders. He did his best to ensure that his prisoners arrived at their destination in as good a condition as he was able. The ship had made the journey to Van Diemen’s Land several times before, usually with the lower deck packed tight and a complement of marines to take care of the cargo. McPhee never carried paying passengers.
‘Och, I canna be bothered with all the bowing and scraping folks expect for their money,’ he’d said to Francis when he’d gone on board. ‘The convicts give me no trouble at all once they’re made aware of certain facts.’
The contents of such facts were revealed to Francis the following day, when the sorry-looking prisoners were assembled on deck and given a taste of what was to come.
The weather was invigorating as the air, charged with the power of the wind, whipped foam from the crest of the waves to hurl it, hissing and stinging, at the bewildered scraps of humanity huddled together on deck. Above them, the sails bulged tautly and the rigging sang and snapped against spars and masts that creaked and strained.
‘This is a tightly run ship,’ McPhee bawled at them, his accent as thick as a lowland bog. ‘It will remain that way. For your own good, you will be divided into groups, each of which will have a particular task. Rations will be issued each day and you will be expected to manage on what you are given. An overseer will be appointed for each group. He will communicate with the sergeant-at-arms on your behalf.’
He nodded at the sergeant, who took over the discourse. ‘Your quarters must be kept clean at all times. Decks will be kept scrubbed. Males and females will not be allowed to fraternize.’ A couple of the male prisoners groaned and the sergeant’s eyes narrowed in on them. ‘We have a physician on board. Disease or injury must be reported immediately. You will be allowed on deck in your groups to exercise, twice a day, for an hour each time.’
Captain McPhee made his authority known again. ‘I’m a fair man, but let me warn you: if you cause me trouble you’ll be either flogged, held in chains for the remainder of the journey or thrown overboard, depending on my mood at the time. Is that understood?’ He smiled benevolently when a gasp went up. ‘That’s all for the present. Carry on, Sergeant.’
‘Aye aye, Captain,’ the sergeant said.
The captain’s glance wandered to where Francis stood by the hatch, and he crooked his forefinger. ‘Doctor, come with me. I wish to talk to you.’
Francis followed the captain down a ladder to his cabin, stooping slightly between the decks, which were built to accommodate men shorter by a head than himself. He took the seat the man indicated, accepting the tot of thick and fiery rum offered to him. It had a kick like a mule. He grimaced as he added a fair amount of water, diluting it to his taste. The captain smiled at that, tossed his down neat, then poured himself another.
‘Considering this is your first time at sea, you’ve found your sea legs fast, Dr Matheson.’
Francis nodded. ‘I admit to being pleasantly surprised, though the ocean is more energetic than I’d imagined it would be.’
McPhee nodded. ‘I wish to inform you of what to expect in the time we are at sea. It’s necessary that I run a tight ship, and there are times when discipline has to be enforced. With you being a country gentleman and a member of the aristocracy, it occurred to me that accepting discipline might prove to be irksome to you.’
Despite the hostility he detected in the other man’s voice, Francis offered a smile. ‘I will try not to incur the need for you to enforce any.’
The captain made a humming noise in his throat. ‘Have you ever witnessed a flogging?’
Frowning slightly now, Francis gazed at him. ‘I’ve experienced most things, Captain. Which is not to say I approve of such punishments.’
‘I’m not asking for your approval.’ McPhee leaned forward, his eyes glinting. ‘At sea, I’m the law aboard this ship. You are not above that law, Dr Matheson. Am I making myself understood?’
Did the man need to assert his authority in such a way, Francis thought, the tips of his ears beginning to glow. His nod was cool. ‘Perfectly. I won’t interfere with your job, and will expect the same professional consideration.’
‘Noo doubt,’ McPhee purred. ‘You should find your new appointment interesting and varied. You’ll treat most common ailments. Broken bones, infectious diseases, dysentery, childbirth, even the clap.’
‘I thought there was to be no fraternization on board.’
‘Not between the prisoners, of course. But some of them are prostitutes, and no doubt will want to earn a favour or two from the crew. We are a long time at sea. It’s customary for the officers to hire the women to look after them during the passage. Indeed, should you need a servant to keep your clothes and cabin in order, plus perform certain other duties when required, you’re welcome to select a suitable female from amongst the prisoners. Looking after men comes natural to women, and keeps them occupied.’
‘Do they have the right to refuse?’
‘Noo, Dr Matheson. They’re prisoners of the crown. I pride myself on being a good judge of character, sir. Am I right in thinking you’re a fastidious man, a man who wouldn’t break his marriage vows to consort with harlots under any circumstances?’
‘You’d be right.’
‘You’d also be a compassionate man, who’d put the comfort of other unfortunates before your own.’
‘That’s a correct assumption.’
‘Then I have the very person in mind for you. She has worked as a maid. I’ll tell the sergeant-at-arms to present her to you. You will have the right to refuse her, of course.’
Which, of course, he would. Francis bit down on his tongue as Elizabeth Skinner suddenly came into his mind. How would she weather such a journey if she was transported? But women were surprisingly strong when pushed to it. After all, she’d survived marriage to Tom Skinner and his horrendous beating of her.
‘One other thing, Doctor. There are some professional dips amongst the prisoners. If anything is missed, report it to me, immediately.’
Francis nodded.
McPhee slid a key across the desk. ‘The medicament chest contains the most popularly used physicks, purges, tonics and unguents, as you requested. If there’s anything more you need, let me know and I will endeavour to obtain it on our first landfall. You may go now, Doctor. You know where the surgeon’s dispensary is situated.’
Forewarned over what to expect if he transgressed and feeling decidedly uncomfortable about the lecture, Francis made his way to his compact, but surprisingly well-equipped domain. It would barely have served as a boot closet in Cheverton Manor. But it had been designed to make the most of the available space, with a surgical table that folded back against the wall, though he must endeavour to call it by its sea name – the bulkhead.
The family he’d left behind came into his mind. He didn’t miss the manor. He wasn’t entirely happy living in Edward Forbes’s shadow, knowing the man had taken Siana’s innocence for his own satisfaction. But that was Francis’s own fault, for he’d failed to recognize his feelings towards Siana and had prevaricated for too long.
Already, he missed his family. The thought of them was a tightly held ache in his heart. He shrugged. And this, when his journey had hardly begun. His mind was assailed by a sharply pungent smell of warm, dark earth, of long shadows spilling across the Dorset hills in the hush of late afternoon. A vision of Maryse filled his mind, a girl standing on the very brink of womanhood. But his last memory of her had been of pain suffered, of her eyes brimming with tears.
His most recent memory of Siana followed. It was one of extreme loving. Her sighs had been ecstatic as her body had opened to him in the most giving and accepting of ways. Her hair had been tumbling to her waist in a riot of curls and her perfume . . . he closed his eyes for a moment, the subtle mixture of woods and wildflowers filling him with longing.
‘I’ll give you enough loving to last you until you return,’ she’d said, the laughter in her eyes fading at the thought of their parting. But it hadn’t been enough loving, for already his body was missing her touch and the ease she brought him. A smile touched his lips. Should an infant result from that last night together, he would be a very proud man. He adored his daughters, and wouldn’t mind another, but he would like to have a son, as well.
There was a knock at the door. He turned to find a girl standing there. No older than Maryse, she had the same virginal innocence about her. Her frightened, heart-shaped face was smeared with dirt, through which paler tear tracks meandered.
The sergeant smartly saluted him. ‘The captain sent the girl, Doctor.’
He stared at her for a few seconds, noting her youth and delicacy, the dark smudges under her eyes. She was under-nourished and poorly dressed. He drew the sergeant aside. ‘What will become of her if I don’t take her?’
‘She’s a sweet little piece. The first mate has already put in a bid for her.’ The first mate was so gross in appearance and manner that Francis couldn’t bear the thought of this vulnerable little creature being released to his care.
‘She may stay.’ He turned to the girl, smiling reassuringly. ‘I’ll expect you to clean my cabin, keep my clothes in order and help out in the dispensary. That’s all.’
She stared at him, trembling and wide-eyed, whilst the sergeant departed, grinning to himself.
‘You needn’t worry,’ he said. ‘I have daughters your age. What’s your name?’
‘Fanny Perkins, sir,’ she said, her voice low.
‘And what was your crime, Fanny?’ Francis couldn’t believe a girl so young and delicate could have committed a transgression serious enough to warrant transportation.
‘Murder, sir.’
‘Murder! You killed somebody?’
‘Yes, sir. My mistress’s husband came to my room one night and tried to force himself on me. I brained him with the wash jug.’
‘Ah . . . I see . . .’ Taken aback, Francis damned the captain’s odd sense of humour.
Josh ran his hand over the flanks of one of the coach horses. ‘What d’you reckon, Sam Saynuthin, should we give the nag a few days off?’
Sam grinned and vigorously nodded his head.
Josh didn’t know how old Sam Saynuthin was. Younger than himself, perhaps, but his crooked spine and shuffling gait gave the impression of an old man. He could be fast when he wanted to be, but soon ran out of strength. Sam’s face had a swarthy, gypsy look. His eyes were a muddy, greenish-brown with a perpetually defensive expression lurking in their depths. Dark hair sprang untidily from his head.
Although Sam had a tongue, Josh had only ever heard him grunt. The lad seemed to use his eyes as ears. His intense gaze never left a person’s mouth when they spoke to him, and he always turned his head this way and that when they were in the street.
Sam had been close to starvation when Josh had found him. Someone had dumped him on the side of the road out of Wareham in the middle of winter and left him to die. His back had been covered with festering sores from the severe flogging he’d been subjected to.
Loading the misshapen lad on to his wagon, Josh had taken him home, to recover in the warmth of the loft over the stables of Elizabeth’s house in Poole, where he resided. Josh had cared for him in the best way he knew how and Sam Saynuthin had recovered.
If the lad came with a name, Josh had never discovered it. One day he’d teasingly offered him one. Grinning with approval, Sam had copied it down on a piece of paper, at the same time making a sssss sound with his tongue. Since then Josh had attempted to teach him some letters, in the same way as Siana had taught him. How much he’d learned, Josh didn’t know, but Sam often surprised him with his drawing ability and his knowledge.
Giles Dennings came out from the office he presided over, a ledger clutched in his hands. He looked entirely pleased with life.
Josh laughed. ‘I know, we’ve made a profit again. But don’t crow too soon, Giles. We’ll need a couple of new horses in a month or two.’
‘I’ve taken those into account.’
‘I’ll soon be able to buy a house to live in, will I, then?’ Something which had always been his dream.
‘You could afford to buy one now if you wanted.’
Josh nodded. ‘But there wouldn’t be enough left over to tide me over the lean times.’
‘You wouldn’t buy it with your own money. The bank would loan you the principal and you’d pay them some interest on the loan. Besides, you’re not having any lean times. Money sticks to you like crap to the sole of a boot.’
Josh grinned. ‘Getting mesself into debt is not for me, Giles. It’s either cash, or nothing. There be security in knowing you don’t owe folks.’
Giles Dennings sighed. ‘How about you listen to me for once, Josh. Your own money would still earn interest if left in the bank. There’s a terrace of eight houses for sale in Smuggler’s Lane. Two up and two down. They belong to old Bainbridge, and he’s calling in his capital. I was thinking we could invest in those. Being centrally situated they bring in a good rent – more than enough to pay off any loan the bank held over them.’
‘And what if people didn’t pay their rent and we couldn’t pay the loan payments – what then?’
‘It won’t happen, but it’s simple. The property itself would be our collateral.’
‘What does collateral mean?’
‘It means we’re offering something of equal value to cover the money lent. The bank will hold the deeds to the terraces until the loan is paid back in full, plus interest. If we default on the loan, the bank would sell the properties over our heads and take their money back from the sale.’
Giles Dennings was a canny fellow, who knew his way about finances. If he was willing to sink his money into such a scheme, so was Josh. ‘So, it’s like going to a pawn shop when you’re hard up. If you can’t scrape the money together to collect your goods, the pawn shop keeps ’em?’
Giles grinned to himself, knowing the bank wouldn’t be at all impressed by the comparison. ‘Exactly.’
‘Sounds fair enough to me. When can we look at these properties?’
‘This afternoon. I’ve arranged it with the agent, Simon Pullen. And we wouldn’t have to chase up the rents, either. Pullen will do that for a small fee.’
Josh stared at him. ‘I suppose you’ve arranged the loan as well?’
Giles’s smug look told Josh it was in the bag. ‘I’ve made enquiries in that direction.’
Josh grinned. ‘I’ll think on it after I’ve seen the properties. In the meantime, I’m off to see a man about a dog.’ He shook his head, grinning to himself as he strode off. Smuggler’s Lane, eh? He liked the sound of it.
Josh’s business was conducted in a back room of the Hog’s Head, where a fire roared up the chimney and the toddy was warmed with a red-hot poker drawn from the glowing coals.
The man he’d come to see was seated in the corner facing the door. They’d conducted business before, and the pair exchanged a smile. The conversation was brief.
‘How many tubs?’
‘A French score. Half-anker. Usual place?’
‘There’s been activity at Branksome. Make it the harbour.’
‘Christ, you be takin’ a risk, bringing it in under the noses of revenue men.’
Josh grinned. ‘Not much of one. It’s the dark side of the moon. I hear tell that most of the customs men will be goin’ over Studland way tomorrow night, so it’s a perfect time to be fishing on the mud flats.’
The man stood up to go. Money was exchanged in the process of shaking hands and the man left. His belly warmed by the rum, coat collar pulled up around his ears against the stiff wind coming off the harbour, Josh followed shortly afterwards, strolling leisurely back along the quay. The day was overcast and he could smell rain in the air. Perfect, he thought. There was nothing like a good downpour to keep people indoors.
About to pass the Customs House, he noticed two young boys larking about by the water’s edge. The older of the pair shoved the younger one and he staggered backwards, his arms flailing at the air.
‘Hey, be careful,’ Josh yelled, but too late. The lad slipped on the cobbles and he tumbled backwards over the quay and into the water.
Shrugging out of his coat as he ran, Josh threw it towards the older lad, shouting, ‘Fetch help,’ as he leaped into the grey water. The cold robbed him of breath and he gazed frantically around him, just in time to see a head bob out of the waves. A mouth opened to scream, but it filled with water and the boy went under again. Josh dived after him. His fingers tangled in some hair and he hauled the lad to the surface.
‘You’re as lively as a bleddy eel. Keep still and stop yelling in my ear, will yah?’ he said sharply as the kid began to thrash about and holler. When the boy quietened, Josh trod water for a few seconds. ‘Good lad. What’s your name?’
The boy’s teeth had begun to chatter. ‘J . . . Josh . . . ua.’
‘Well, I’ll be blowed. It’s the same as mine. Here, put your arms around my neck and hold on tight whilst I get us to shore, young Joshua. And don’t let go. Got it?’
When he reached the quayside, arms reached down to pull the boy up. Josh was hauled up the same way. His eyes narrowed when he stood to find himself in the grasp of two uniformed men.
The lad was being tended by another man in uniform. His father, if the resemblance was anything to go by. The older boy had a scared look on his face – he was wondering if he was facing a strap across his arse, no doubt.
Josh gazed from one of his captors to the other, smiled and raised an eyebrow. ‘Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. You may unhand me now. How’s the tyke?’
‘My son is alive,’ the third man said, hauling the shivering kid up into his arms and scowling ominously at his elder brother. ‘How can I thank you?’
Josh shrugged, remembering his own savage floggings as a youth. He was too cold to hang around here exchanging niceties, especially with the revenue men. ‘By going easy on the other lad, that’s how. They were just two boys having a friendly tussle. It were an accident and the lad’s had fright enough already, I reckon.’
He felt uncomfortable with three pairs of astute eyes fixed on him. Picking up his coat, he threw it around his shoulders. He had a set of visiting clothes back at the coach station, and a stove to cosy himself up to. ‘You must excuse me now, gentlemen. I have a pressing need for dry clothes and a mug of something hot. Goodbye, young Josh. From now on, make sure you and your brother stay away from the water’s edge.’
‘I know your face, but what’s your name?’ the boy’s father called out as Josh walked rapidly away.
He pretended not to hear him. He didn’t see any sense in bringing his name to the attention of the authorities, however innocently – no sense, at all.