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.
“The horses are comfortably settled,” Jay said with an air of satisfaction.
Lizzie could not resist a retort. “They’re better off than the human beings!”
“Ah, that reminds me,” said Jay. “Bone, there’s a convict in the hold called Sidney Lennox. Have his irons struck and put him in a cabin, please.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“Why is Lennox with us?” Lizzie said, aghast.
“He was convicted of receiving stolen goods. But the family has made use of him in the past and we can’t abandon him. He might die in the hold.”
“Oh, Jay!” Lizzie cried in dismay. “He’s such a bad man!”