The Disgrace of Kitty Grey (22 page)

To help regain our family's good name, please be kind enough to send word to Bridgeford Hall to tell them that Miss Alice's bag and money were stolen from me the moment I arrived in London. It was this crime which led directly to my downfall.

I will endeavour to tell you of my safe arrival in Australia and let you know how I am faring. In the meantime, please know that I think of you every day, and remain,

Your loving daughter,

Katherine

 

I did the best I could with the address, stating that they lived near the Bear and Bull Tavern, and paid another ha'penny over the tuppence to have the letter sealed with red wax. It looked very important when it was completed and would probably frighten the life out of them, for I couldn't remember them ever having received a letter before.

I sat down and cried when the letter-writer had gone, for writing to my parents had caused me to realise that I would probably never see them again in this life. I prayed for everything to go smoothly: that the scribe was a man to be trusted, that the post office would put my letter in the right bag, that a highwayman would not snatch it on its way to Devonshire, that the address would be understood and that my father had a spare tuppence in his pocket to pay for its delivery. There were so many reasons why my letter might not be delivered that I just had to trust to luck. And then I cried a little more for, since coming to London, luck had not been a friend to me.

Chapter Twenty

 

 

I tried to imagine myself in this new land. We would not be made to wear shackles once we were there, they said, for there was nowhere for us to escape to. If we were too young or too old to be taken as wives, we would work in what they called a factory house (which sounded much like a workhouse), carding wool, picking oakum or doing some other monotonous task. They said the weather was all topsy-turvy: that when it was hot in England, in Australia it would be cold enough to freeze milk.

I tried to imagine the long, long journey, and what it would be like to sail across the sea for days and months and see nothing around but water, and came to the conclusion that I would not be able to bear it. Some people were dreadfully seasick, apparently, and fell over when they tried to walk. Other prisoners caught fevers and died on board, for the conditions down below the decks on some ships were as bad as at Newgate. If you died when the ship was at sea, you would be wrapped in canvas and thrown overboard to be eaten by fish.

It was a week after Mrs Fry's second visit that those of us who had been sentenced to be sent to Parts Beyond the Seas were told to collect our things ready to go to the ship. This sent Martha into a frenzy of sobs which affected both Robyn and Betsy, while I remained relatively calm, for I could not believe I was really going. Why, I hardly believed there
was
such a land across the seas; it seemed as remote as heaven or the kingdom they say is inhabited by faeries. Surely something would happen to prevent my leaving: they would say that my sentence was a mistake, that they knew I had not meant any harm, that I should be spared. Surely Will would gallop up to the ship on a white horse and rescue us!

But nothing of that sort happened and I said my goodbyes to Mrs Goodwin and to Martha – which was especially hard – and waited with Betsy, my wooden crate in my arms, feeling as if I was in a dream.

At the prison gates, the sight of two small children plus eight sobbing girls waiting to have their shackles put on was a very sorry one. It did not help matters, either, when we were given a send-off which was much like that given to those about to be hanged, with the other female inmates rattling the bars, stamping on the ground and shouting protests about us being made to leave our mother country. I noticed that Sarah wasn't amongst our number, and found out later that she was not well enough to travel, being ill with the fever.

As we prisoners came outside to get into the waiting cart, a change came upon us, for the sky was blue and the air fresh and frosty, which suddenly stopped our tears and made us blink like badgers in the sharp sunlight. For a moment I was reminded of my cows when spring arrives and they leave their winter quarters to be turned out into pasture: how they stretch, bellow and kick up their legs with the joy of no longer being confined. There was no joy for us in thinking of what lay ahead, but it was so good to be outside that I closed my eyes, turned my face towards the silvery sun and took in great gulps of fresh air. And when Betsy asked me why all the bells were ringing, I realised that it was not merely because it was Sunday, but Christmas morning.

This tiny moment of elation didn't last, and we were silent as we climbed into the cart. We sat on the floor and huddled together for warmth, for despite the blue sky and sun it was dismally cold. I did not know any of my fellow captors; two of them came from the Master's Side and the others, in all the great press of people, I hadn't really noticed before. In gaol you tended to keep yourself to yourself – and besides, it was difficult to distinguish between us, for with our torn gowns, filthy faces and matted hair we were just a raggle-taggle band of disorderly women. After a while, one of the three burly guards announced that we were heading for a boat waiting at Swan Dock which would take us on to Galleon's Reach, a way down the Thames towards the sea, and that we would be most of the day getting there. At Galleon's Reach waited the ship we would be sailing on, the
Juanita
.

We received this news in silence, for I believe we were all drained and dulled by the enormity of what was happening to us. Betsy fell asleep and I covered her up with a shawl and tucked her tightly against me, but I was too cold to sleep and was seized with a violent shivering. How could this be happening? I thought about those at home and wondered if my letter had reached them, thought about Miss Sophia returning to the hall, and the surprising kindness of Mr Holloway. Mostly I thought about Will; where he could be and what he would say if he knew what was happening to us. Oh, surely the news would cause him a little anguish?

The road beyond the city became worse – potholed and treacherous – and at length we reached a small jetty where a long, low rowing boat was awaiting us. With difficulty, for we were all still in chains, the watermen on it helped us climb aboard. The captain of the vessel came and looked us over, then asked one of our guards if we were likely to cause any trouble.

‘Not they!' came the reply. ‘They've not the strength to cause a fuss.'

Our boat cast off and, as we continued downriver, the number of ordinary houses decreased and the wharves and warehouses grew more numerous, as did the river traffic. At first it was mostly small rowing boats, ferries, lighters and tugs going backwards and forwards (and you can imagine that I scrutinised the ferries and those who rowed in them most carefully); later we saw tall-masted ships unpacking their cargoes of tea, sugar and coal, oblivious to what day of the year it was. As hard as I looked, though, and as desperately as I prayed, I did not see the one ferryman I sought.

By now we were all too tired, too cold and too miserable to even weep at our fate, but sat on the floor of the boat as if turned to statues. As the city receded and the scene at each side of the river changed from busy wharves to a gloomy wilderness of swamps, mud and desolation, each of us was locked in our own thoughts. When we came upon a great lumpen mass of a ship, without sails or cannon, half-sunk in the river, we looked at it with a little curiosity, but did not comment.

When a second mighty – yet unkempt and uncared-for –  ship came into sight, however, half-buried in mud, and someone read out, ‘The
Brunswick
', I could not but wonder aloud what it was doing there.

‘ 'Tis a prison ship with well-nigh a hundred men and guards on board,' said one of those who rowed us. ‘A
hulk
, they call it. It was towed to its spot and cannot move.'

‘But why are they imprisoned so?' one of the girls asked.

‘Because the gaols are too full to take 'em,' came the brief answer. ‘And out here on the marshes yon prisoners can fight and wrestle and starve and kill each other and few will know or care.'

As we passed the
Brunswick
, our guard told us that the stink from the ship was not to be borne in summer at low tide. ‘The hulk just sits there in its own mess until the river comes in and washes everything away,' he explained cheerily. ‘But then again, if the men weren't put in there, they'd be in Newgate. 'Tis hard to choose between 'em.'

‘Why don't they just swim to shore and escape?' one of our number asked.

‘Swim? Wearing leg irons and through such terrain?' the guard replied. ‘These marshlands stretch for miles – any creature jumping ship would lose his way and certainly perish amidst mud and quicksand.'

‘They do try it occasionally,' another remarked. ‘We find their bones washed up on the spring tide.'

We came to yet another stranded ship, deep in silt and decay and hanging with weeds and wet clothing, named the
Unicorn
.

‘Aye. Another hulk,' said the guard. ‘She was a fine ship once . . . fought the Spanish and came back with a cargo of gold. Now look at her.'

Some of us looked up as we passed, all uncaring, and as we did so someone on the ship must have seen that we were a boatload of girls, for we heard shouts and men suddenly appeared from all over the decks, some shouting profanities, some declaring love, some pleading for us to break our journey and call in and see them.

Only one girl from our boat waved, and it certainly wasn't me, for I felt as if I didn't have a wave or smile left in me. On and on we went, until we came to deeper waters, a broader river and a mighty ship, spruce and newly painted.

‘Is that our ship?' someone asked, but we were told we were not there yet, and it would be another hour's rowing (for we were going against the tide now) before we reached the ship we would be travelling on.

At last she was sighted.

‘ 'Tis the
Juanita
!' someone called out, holding a lantern aloft, and the rest of us sighed deeply, woke those who had been lucky enough to find sleep, and prepared ourselves to climb the ladder and go on board.

Chapter Twenty-One

 

 

Most of us were weeping as we trudged and shuffled down a passageway and into a small dark room. It was icy cold, and there was a strange aroma of salt and tar in the air which seemed to catch at the back of my throat.

One of the guards hooked a lantern over a beam, said in a mocking voice, ‘I trust you'll sleep well, ladies!', and left us. We heard a crash as a bar came down outside the door, then the rattling of keys as he locked us in.

‘Here!' shouted the girl who'd waved at the hulks – I'd heard her called Jane. ‘Don't just go off and leave us. Where's our vittles?'

‘You surely don't think they'll feed us at this time of the night!' said an older woman. ‘We'll have to wait for morning.'

‘Dumping us in here like a box of chickens!' Jane said, thumping at the door. ‘At least in Newgate we were fed!'

The rest of us had been leaning against the walls and now began to slide to the floor, too tired and downhearted to care whether we supped or starved. Betsy was practically asleep on her feet and I pulled her down beside me and put her head on my lap. There was a pile of threadbare blankets in the middle of the room and the older woman handed me one, with a wan smile, and helped me tuck it around Betsy. I remember thanking her, and this was the last thing I can recall before I fell asleep myself.