By Fickle Winds Blown

BY

FICKLE WINDS

BLOWN

Maryk Lewis

Published by Maryk Lewis at Smashwords

Copyright Maryk Lewis 2014

FREE

The original of the painting by Frederick Tudgay 1841 – 1921 on the cover of this

ebook is the property of the Hocken Library, University of Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand.

All of the characters in this ebook are fictitious, and any resemblance

to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

For twelve-year-old, nearly thirteen, Jessica Gordon there was little prospect of eventual marriage in 1870’s Ireland. Being the sixth daughter in a large family, there was no money for a dowry, and without that no young man in her class could afford her. The fourth daughter, Sarah, was already sixteen years old, and there was no dowry for her either. An arranged marriage with a settler in the colonies was the best that could be done for her. She was to sail half-way around the world to marry a man she had never met. When Sarah offered to swap her cabin-class ticket for two in steerage, and take her younger sister with her, Jess accepted gladly. The shortage of women in the colonies would offer her the best prospects she could hope for. As they boarded the sailing ship Haldia in the London Docks, Jess little expected what the sisters found aboard that crowded emigrant ship. The friendship and rough humour of both passengers and crew saw them through nearly four months of being buffeted about by every wind that blew.

For Shirley

ePub format ISBN 978-0-473-30210-8

Kindle/Mobi format ISBN 978-0-473-30211-5

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

One

The sisters, Sarah and Jess Gordon, struggled down to the docks quite late in the day. It all looked bleak, rather foggy, and uninviting, but they didn’t know where else to go. Heavy wooden breastworks boxed in a square basin of scummy water, the size of a football field. There were lock-gates blocking off a channel which led out to the river. All around were dark buildings, great warehouses, their brickwork black with soot.

They were three days early. Embarkation was set for Thursday.

Alongside the nearest quay, lower than the quay, lay their ship, a three-masted sailing vessel, the ‘Haldia’, just where they were told it would be.

Jess, the younger sister, looked at it worriedly. It looks awfully small for three hundred people.

As they drew closer, the girls looked up at the mastheads rearing far above them, and their heads tilted further and further back. At least the masts were big. The grey clouds scudding overhead were hardly any higher.

You’ll fall in, lassies, if you don’t look where you’re going, a gruff voice called. It isn’t bath night yet, you know.

There was a man on the ship, a burly, bearded man in a hooded, canvas sea jacket. He was standing near the gangway, looking up at them, the only person in sight.

It’s a wonder those masts don’t make the ship fall over, Sarah, the other sister, commented to him in a soft Gaelic lilt. She lowered her kitbag to the ground with relief. Do you have to climb away up there?

Aye lass, but they won’t expect you to do it, the man said with a grin. Not today anyway. In fact you shouldn’t even be on the docks today at all now, should you?

The man on the gates let us in when he saw we had tickets, Sarah explained.

Did he now? Then he shouldn’t have. We’ll not be embarking passengers until Thursday.

We know, Sarah admitted, but we’ve nowhere else to go, and our money’s run out.

We’ve only got four pence left, Jess added, sounding somewhat puffed. She was just a little thing, her head hardly reaching to her sister’s shoulder. The cabin bag she was lugging was far too heavy for her.

You wait there, the sailor told them, not unkindly. Mr MacGovern’s aboard, our second mate. You can talk to him, though it may not do you much good.

Shortly they heard him calling down a companionway, Two young ladies, sir, on the dock. They’d like a word with you.

Send them away! a muffled voice shouted back. You know what the owners think about doxies on board. Who let them on the dock anyway?

They’re not that sort, sir. They’re ladies, sir. Passengers. They’ve got tickets.

They shouldn’t be here, Bo’s’n, not today, the voice came more plainly as a dark, solidly-built, young man emerged onto the deck. He wore a peaked cap which shaded his eyes, and made his unshaven face look even more whiskery. He sounded annoyed.

When his gaze lit on Sarah, standing on the quay above him, MacGovern caught his breath and his demeanour softened considerably. She had that effect on most men. Tall, her long brown hair cascaded from under her bonnet and down her back, held in place with a green ribbon at the neck. As she turned towards him, the smooth line of her cheek was outlined against the drab wall behind her.

We’re in need of shelter, sir, she said, her large blue eyes looking directly into his brown ones. Would you have my little sister and me adrift in the docklands?

No...er, no, miss, he agreed. It’s hardly a suitable place for young ladies. You’re a mite young for these surroundings. The smaller one, a waif with her fair hair in plaits, certainly looked it, though perhaps it might not be true of that other delicious creature.

I’m sixteen, sir, and engaged to be married, Sarah replied stiffly.

I’m eleven, Jess piped up.

Quite so...yes, I’m sure, MacGovern huffed. Still, this is no place for you to be.

Then can you suggest where we might go?

We’re not allowed to have you on here, miss. The owners won’t allow it. It’s the insurance, you see. There’s no insurance on passengers till embarkation time.

There’s no insurance on us standing here either, Sarah replied.

No, miss, but that’s not our fault. Can you not find lodgings until Thursday?

As we said to your Bo’s’n, here, our money’s run out. We’ve only four pence left. Everything coming here, the coach fares, the lodgings, has all cost more than we were told.

Where have you come from? he asked, not that he wanted to know, but he couldn’t think what else to say to them.

From County Fermanagh in Ireland.

You sound more Scots.

Aye, well they say we do in that part. There’s many Scots folk there...too many. That’s maybe why some of us need to leave, Sarah sighed.

And your man? Your betrothed? Where is he?

I’ll meet him in New Zealand. He sent the fare for me to go to him.

It’s a pity he’s not here to take care of you now, MacGovern complained.

Er, perhaps Mr Smithers might have a suggestion, sir, the boatswain ventured.

Yes. Thank you Bo’s’n, MacGovern brightened perceptibly. I’ll take you round there, ladies. You can leave your baggage here.

I’ll take care of it ladies, the boatswain offered, and was thanked prettily.

Who’s Mr Smithers? Jess asked, as MacGovern climbed the gang plank to join them on the quay.

He’s the Dispatching Official, the man in charge of putting the emigrants aboard all the various ships. He has to agree that our ship is suitable for them before we can sail. His main office is up in Westminster, but I know that he’s down here in the dock office at the moment. Our schoolmaster has to meet him there for an interview. There’s a problem with the schoolmaster, to say nothing of several other things which have gone wrong.

Second Officer MacGovern led them along the quay, and through a gap between the buildings, heading toward the river. It looked dreary and wintry out there, poor weather even for November. Barges under sail were beating against the current, taking cargoes of coal up the Thames to feed all the thousands of fires that made London’s air so thick with smut. A small steamer, smoke pouring from its stack, surged busily past them. It would be good to get to sea, out into the fresh air again.

In the outer room of the dock office, a small clapboard building standing by itself, a man and two small children sat forlornly on a bench against the wall. There was nobody behind the counter.

Politely, the man stood to his feet when he saw Sarah. He didn’t look like a schoolmaster, not really; studious perhaps, neat sandy hair cut short, but surely he was another sailor, lean and weather-beaten. His winged collar and thin tie seemed out of place on a man with hands which looked more suited to pulling ropes, and swinging on oars.

Mr Inkster, is it? MacGovern asked, and on receiving a nod, Where’s Mr Smithers?

He has another ship in the South West India Dock, Inkster replied. They’re about to put out into the river, and he’s concerned that they’ve not got a full crew. He told us to wait. He’ll be back shortly.

Yes, crews are a worry just now, MacGovern nodded. It’s the influenza. We’re short-handed yet ourselves. I must get back to my ship, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just leave these young ladies with you, he said, and smartly departed.

Would you like to sit down? the schoolmaster asked, a refined voice with some northern accent, not quite Scottish, something else. Here, Laurie, move over, and make room for the ladies.

The little fellow, a tow-headed six-year-old, moved aside and offered Sarah his seat.

No, no, there’s room for us all, Sarah protested. I’ll take your wee sister on my knee.

Seen more closely, the other tot, red headed and freckled, a four-year-old perhaps, had been recently crying. Her eyes were still red-rimmed.

Have you been in the wars, my pet?

We buried her mother yesterday, Mr Inkster said, his face strained and white at the memory. My little ones aren’t over the shock yet.

By the look of him, Mr Inkster wasn’t either. As they settled on the bench, Sarah and Jess wondered how they would feel in his position.

And you’re still going out to New Zealand, Sarah asked, even without your wife?

There’s not much else I can do, he grimaced. I’ve burnt my boats. I’ve no position back home any more, and now I’ve no money either. The funeral’s taken all I had.

Where’s home? Sarah asked, with the tiny girl nestled in against her breast.

Shetland, the island of Yell. At least it used to be. And you?

She told him.

I suppose things are hard in Ireland now too, he commented.

They are when there’s too many girls in the family, Sarah agreed.

You’ll be younger sisters then?

The fourth and sixth in line, she nodded. There’d be no marriages for us in Ireland. Our father couldn’t afford to provide us with dowries.

So you hope to find men in New Zealand who’ll take you without dowries?

One’s already been found for me, Sarah replied, finding it easy to talk to this troubled young man, no more than ten or a dozen years her senior. He’s even paid my fare out there.

And your younger sister’s too?

Not really. We’ve made it stretch. He sent the money for a cabin passage for me, but by going steerage there was enough for Jess to come too. She’s still under twelve, so she can come for half fare, or nearly so, seven pounds eleven shillings, instead of thirteen pounds eleven shillings and sixpence.

They made me pay full tariff in the lodging houses on our way here though, Jess put in. They’d not believe I’m only eleven, or at least they pretended not to. That’s why we’ve run out of money, that and the coach fares being too dear.

That is a problem, Mr Inkster agreed with feeling. At least I’ll be able to earn some more once we sail. I suppose you’ll be anxious to see your fiancé again.

There won’t be any ‘again’ about it, Sarah returned ruefully. I’ve never met him. It’s all been arranged for us, so the poor man is getting me ‘sight unseen’. There’s a terrible shortage of women in the colonies.

At that moment a fussy little man, with rimless glasses on a cord, bustled into the office, and went behind the counter.

Now you’ll be Inkster, I take it, he said, referring to a bound ledger lying on the counter, and this is your good lady?

Ah, no...no, my wife has died, the schoolmaster replied quickly. That is what I’ve come to see you about. She died on the coach coming down here, two days ago. The influenza.

And what about you? Are you going to get it now?

No. We’ve all had it. My late wife was the last to get it. She couldn’t have been really over it when we set out on our journey, Inkster explained. Now I’ve lost her.

Yes, quite so. My condolences, Smithers responded unfeelingly. So now you have no teaching assistant for the voyage. I had hoped to offer her the post of sub-matron too. The woman already appointed won’t be coming now either.

Perhaps I could find another assistant from among the passengers, Inkster offered.

Fat hope, Smithers snorted. They’re mostly lumbering great country girls. There’ll not be many of them able to read and write.

I can, Sarah interrupted. We both can.

Who’re you? Smithers demanded, frowning.

Sarah produced their tickets, and Smithers peered at them through his glasses, and compared them to the names on the lists in his register.

You’re early, he said sourly. Passengers can’t go aboard yet. You’ll have to find somewhere else to stay until Thursday.

But we’ve not got enough money left, Sarah pleaded.

I can’t help that, she was told. We must obey the regulations.

Sarah and Jess looked hopelessly at each other. Beyond the grimy office windows the chill mist swirled dimly in the flickering lantern light.

Two

If we were crew... Sarah suggested.

Even if Mr Inkster here accepted you, the schoolmaster’s assistant isn’t ‘crew’. It’s a passenger’s appointment, the Dispatching Official retorted.

Can’t we go aboard to prepare the schoolroom for the voyage? Inkster asked.

Schoolroom? There isn’t one. You take the lessons out on deck, or in the great cabin after the meals have been cleared away. No, you’ve nothing to prepare there. If your wife had been here, it would be different. She’d have had the hospital flat to prepare. That all has to be scrubbed out yet, and disinfected.

Well, you haven’t anybody now to do that, Inkster pointed out. We could do it.

Smithers looked thoughtful.

Maybe, he said at last. There’s not three days work in it, but there are other problems we might solve. Wait here. I’ve matters to discuss with your captain.

He busy bodied away again into the gathering gloom.

Would you have me for your assistant? Sarah asked after he had gone. I’d work very hard at it.

I’m sure you would, Inkster nodded. I’d need to see some of your writing, hear you read, that sort of thing.

Sarah looked around for something she could read aloud for him. There was the opened ledger lying on the counter, but it would be cheeky of her to touch that. Nearby were some printed forms. It would do no harm to read from those. She turned the top one toward her, and read out:

"MESS UTENSILS TO BE PUT ON BOARD FOR EVERY SEVEN STATUTE ADULTS.

1 Mess Kit with Iron Handles, 2 gallons.

1 Tin Oval Dish with Colander and Cover, 14 inches long, 8 inches deep..."

Yes, that’s fine, Inkster stopped her. You read well. What about your writing?

Something to write with; something to write on? That was more difficult. Smithers’ iron-nibbed pen lay in a groove on the counter, and an inkwell was set into a hole, but there was no paper she dared use.

You could show him your diary, Jess proposed.

Oh, no! Sarah cried, and blushed scarlet.

Perhaps if you chose the passage, Inkster suggested gently. Just enough to see the style.

That might be all right, Sarah thought. Nobody had ever been allowed to see her diary before. It was private; just for her. It had all sorts of things she had thought about, things she wanted to remember, but not things she wanted other people to see. Certainly not! For this man, though, maybe...

Before her courage waned, she fished in her