"She seems a little better," Mrs. Fleming answered.
The little girl was only four and she looked frail and pale in the bunk. There was a sheen of perspiration across her forehead and, as she slept, her eyelids fluttered. In the bunk above her elder brother looked over the edge. Sarah smiled at him and he smiled back.
"She misses her father," she added, her eyes intent on her daughter.
"I know," Sarah said and squeezed Mrs. Fleming's shoulder. What more could she do?
"It's so hard to explain, to make her understand. You know," she said, turning to look at Sarah. "That he'll not be coming back." There was a tear in one eye. "Not ever."
Sarah wrapped her arms around the widow and drew her towards her. Marjorie sobbed against Sarah's shoulder. Above them the young boy drew back into his bunk, frightened at seeing his mother so upset.
"I'm sorry," Mrs. Fleming said, pulling back. "You must think ....."
"It's all right, Marjorie. It's all right. Don't worry."
"What am I going to do?"
Sarah couldn't answer her. The mother would have been about ten years older than Sarah – perhaps she was thirty years old. She said she'd had the boy when she was only twenty-four and Sarah thought Marjorie had said he was six. She was not an unattractive woman, but the trip and especially the last week, had had its effect. She looked thin and tired.
"You have to keep up your strength," Sarah said lamely. "Why don't you sleep now, while she's quiet. It'll do you good. I'll come back in the morning."
"Will you?"
"Of course. Did you have some supper?"
"A little. I couldn't eat it all."
"You must try, Marjorie." She indicated with her head. "These two depend on you."
"I know."
"Go to bed now. Sleep. It might be calmer tomorrow."
"Thank you," she said and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "You've been a good friend."
Sarah smiled and left her. Perhaps the events would make Marjorie no different to herself. In losing her husband and on her way to a strange land where she knew no one, she had been sentenced as well.
Sarah stood in the same doorway where her new friend had seen her husband swept to his death. Although there had not been much light in the dark clouded sky for most of the day, what light there had been was now fading. The sea seemed to be calming, the waves not so high, but the rain still lashed across the deck.
She grabbed at the rope, wet and rough in her hands, and stepped out onto the deck. It was slippery under her feet and she edged across the deck slowly, with the image of Ben Fleming in her mind, fear etched on his face, a smile of recognition and then death on his face. Death, she thought, and shuddered.
The wind thrashed the rain into her face and before she was halfway across the open deck she was saturated, her hair hanging limply on her head, the thin blouse and jacket like a second skin, heavy and cold, and the long skirt clinging around her legs.
She took the last few steps hurriedly and half fell into the entrance to the soldiers' quarters. She looked back over her shoulder, her heart beating and she wiped the hair out of her eyes. Her legs seemed like jelly and the trembling was a combination of fear and cold. She went down the stairs slowly, gripping the side rail with both hands. As she got to the foot of the stairs the ship shifted suddenly and she was thrown against one wall, a sharp jab at her shoulder and she fell to the floor. She wanted to cry. She wanted to be back home, in England. She hated this ship and the weather, she hated and feared where she was going. Her life had ended when the magistrate had handed down her sentence and this was hell, this was all a mad, bizarre dream – and she wished she would wake up soon.
No, she thought, she’d stay asleep and never wake up.
Die.
"You all right, love?"
It was one of the young soldiers. He was half over her, one hand on the wall above her, his other reaching down for hers.
"You all right?" he asked again. "You hurt?"
He had a broad accent that she couldn't place. She longed for the land that he came from, the distance of Northumberland, the flatness of Anglia, anywhere. Anywhere, but here.
"I'm fine," she said.
"Let me help you up," and he smiled.
He'd know who she was - the lieutenant's woman, his consort. Whore.
Another sentence, she thought.
She took his arm and he lifted her. He held her by her shoulders and smiled into her face.
"Bit rough, love."
"Yes," she said.
"You hurt?"
"No. I just ..." she rubbed her shoulder. "I fell against the wall. I'll be fine."
"You're soaked."
She managed a half-smile. "The rain," she said simply.
His eyes drifted down to her body, the material clinging to her breasts, the nipples visible even through the layers of clothes.
"You'll catch your death," looking back into her eyes. "Go and get dry."
"I will. Thank you."
He smiled and continued on his way, past her and up the stairs. Her legs still felt unsteady as she made her way along the narrow passageway to the lieutenant's cabin. The door was closed and she hesitated, her hand on the doorknob.
She could be with the other convicts, she realised, the conditions were not bad, but with the lieutenant it was better. It was warmer and she felt safer.
Sarah turned the knob and stepped inside. It was empty. He would still be with the others, or maybe with the captain or the surgeon. She walked around the narrow cabin, running her hand over the smooth wood of the small desk against one wall, feeling the leather of his books. The bed was neat and it looked like he had had clean sheets put on it. There was a black trunk in one corner that held his clothes and, towards the bottom, two hand pistols in a wooden box. She'd watched him one morning draw the flat dark box from among the clothes. My father's, he had said, and she had held the sheet to her chest and had peered out of the bed as he had opened the box. A dark green cloth covered the pistols and there was a glint along the barrels. My father's, he'd said again.
It was cold. She was frozen and it went deep and she started to shiver.
She took a sheet from a box next to the bed and wiped her hair and her face and then started to take off her clothes. They stuck to her, clinging, wet and heavy and when she was naked she wrapped the sheet around her, pulled a blanket off the bed and wrapped that around her as well. She didn't want to make a mess of the bed; she knew he was neat and liked things looking just so, but the cold took control of her and she scrambled under the eiderdown and curled up into a ball, wrapping her arms around herself.
Slowly, her teeth stopped chattering and her body ceased to shiver. She heard the sound of laughter in the distance.
For ten minutes she luxuriated in the warmth and then she got out of the bunk, the sheet and blanket still around her, and lit a second oil lamp. She squeezed the excess water from her clothes and watched the water form a pool on the wooden floor, and then slowly soak away. She draped the clothes where she could.
The ship tipped suddenly, first one way, then the other, and she fell to the floor. She could hear the clatter of dishes and shouts, then running feet outside the door, along the passageway and up the stairs.
She stayed on the floor and inched into a corner of the cabin and pressed her back against the walls, she drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them and curled into the sheet and blanket. The fear hit her again and she longed for the lieutenant to be with her, to wrap his arms around her. There was security there, like being in the