A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [111]
“Oh, Jay!” Lizzie cried in dismay. “He’s such a bad man!”
“On the contrary, he’s quite useful.”
Lizzie turned away. She had rejoiced to be leaving Lennox behind in England. What bad luck that he too had been transported. Would Jay never escape from his malign influence?
Bone said: “The tide’s on the turn, Mr. Jamisson. Captain will be impatient to weigh anchor.”
“My compliments to the captain, and tell him to carry on.”
They all climbed the ladder.
A few minutes later Lizzie and Jay stood in the bows as the ship began to move downriver on the tide. A fresh evening breeze buffeted Lizzie’s cheeks. As the dome of St. Paul slipped below the skyline of warehouses she said: “I wonder if we’ll ever see London again.”
III
Virginia
26
MACK LAY IN THE HOLD OF THE ROSEBUD, shaking with fever. He felt like an animal: filthy, nearly naked, chained and helpless. He could hardly stand upright but his mind was clear enough. He vowed he would never again allow anyone to put iron fetters on him. He would fight, try to escape, and hope they killed him rather than suffer this degradation again.
An excited cry from on deck penetrated the hold: “Soundings at thirty-five fathoms, Captain—sand and reeds!”
A cheer went up from the crew. Peg said: “What’s a fathom?”
“Six feet of water,” Mack said with weary relief. “It means we’re approaching land.”
He had often felt he would not make it. Twenty-five of the prisoners had died at sea. They had not starved: it seemed that Lizzie, who had not reappeared below decks, had nevertheless kept her promise and ensured they had enough to eat and drink. But the drinking water had been foul and the diet of salt meat and bread unhealthily monotonous, and all the convicts had been violently ill with the type of sickness that was called sometimes hospital fever and sometimes jail fever. Mad Barney had been the first to die of it: the old went quickest.
Disease was not the only cause of death. Five people had been killed in one dreadful storm, when the prisoners had been tossed around the hold, helplessly injuring themselves and others with their iron chains.
Peg had always been thin but now she looked as if she were made of sticks. Cora had aged. Even in the half dark of the hold Mack could see that her hair was falling out, her face was drawn, and her once voluptuous body was scraggy and disfigured with sores. Mack was just glad they were still alive.
Some time later he heard another sounding: “Eighteen fathoms and white sand.” Next time it was thirteen fathoms and shells; and then, at last, the cry: “Land ho!”
Despite his weakness Mack longed to go on deck. This is America, he thought. I’ve crossed the world to the far side, and I’m still alive; I wish I could see America.
That night the Rosebud anchored in calm waters. The seaman who brought the prisoners’ rations of salt pork and foul water was one of the more friendly crew members. His name was Ezekiel Bell. He was disfigured—he had lost one ear, he was completely bald and he had a huge goiter like a hen’s egg on his neck—and he was ironically known as Beau Bell. He told them they were off Cape Henry, near the town of Hampton in Virginia.
Next day the ship remained at anchor. Mack wondered angrily what was prolonging their voyage. Someone must have gone ashore for supplies, because that night there came from the galley a mouthwatering smell of fresh meat roasting. It tortured the prisoners and gave Mack stomach cramps.
“Mack, what happens when we get to Virginia?” Peg asked.
“We’ll be sold, and have to work for whoever buys us,” he replied.
“Will we be sold together?”
He knew there was little chance of it, but he did not say so. “We might be,” he said. “Let’s hope for the best.”
There was a silence while Peg took that in. When she spoke again her voice was frightened. “Who will buy us?”
“Farmers, planters, housewives … anyone who needs workers and wants them cheap.”
“Someone might want all three of us.”
Who would want a coal