Skylark (21 page)

S
CENE:
Croixelles Harbour and the Askew's yacht
Waterwitch

All is lost!

[Archivist's Note: This harbour is now spelled Croisilles. It is to be found a little north-east of Nelson. E. de M.]

The morning dawned clear and cool. From the bush, birds sang as if this was to be a glorious and happy day. The sun rose from behind the hills to warm our chilled bones. Bully had the men working at sunrise. He was in jovial mood — his rage of the night forgotten, it seemed.

‘Well, the old brigantine is in much better shape,' he said as we ate our bacon and bread by the campfire. ‘We will be on our way in a day or two.' He gave little Adelaida a chuck under the chin, slapped Mary on the backside, which made her jump and blush, then shouted over his shoulder, ‘George! Shake a leg, old fellow, the day is half over!'

He strolled over to where George Buckingham was scraping at his whiskers with a razor. George looked up at him with apprehension, cutting himself in the process. I feared he would give me away, but he remained silent.

‘George, my good friend,' said my husband, smiling in the most familiar way and squatting beside the trembling fellow, ‘the time has come for the parting of the ways. You are not a seafaring man. Your talents are more suited to the gentle folk of Nelson than to the roaring goldfields.'

George glanced at me, then quickly back at Bully. He nodded dumbly.

‘I want you to pack your trunk this very morning,' said Bully,
as if this was the most natural of requests. ‘We will have a picnic — just our little family here …' He gestured expansively towards me, Mary and the baby. ‘And then we will deliver you to the other side of the bay where you may arrange a ride in to Nelson.'

George cleared his throat. Again he gave a quick glance towards me. ‘But Bully,' he said in his high, clear voice, ‘I have worked the goldfields before, as you know. I could come with you.'

‘You need not remind me of that time,' said the Captain dangerously. ‘I know only too well …' He was remembering of course the severed ear; the farce.

George spread his hands, a simple, hopeful gesture. ‘Ah Bully, that's all in the past. A bit of fun.' He risked a crooked smile.

‘Well it is not in the past for me!' roared Bully. ‘We no longer have space aboard for you. Will you pack your trunk, man!'

We all jumped. The baby started to cry. Bully walked back to his men without another word. No mention of Mary and Adelaida. But later in the morning, as Bully was setting off to walk to the Askews' to pick up the yacht, he muttered to me, ‘See that the nursemaid is packed and ready along with the baby's things.'

He said it gruffy, knowing what he asked, knowing that he was treating George poorly. Let alone his so-called wife and child. I was astonished that he could imagine it would all go smoothly. Captain Bully Hayes believed his own charm would always override poor planning. Not this time.

I pretended to go along with his orders. By the time he returned with the yacht
Waterwitch
, Mary had packed her few belongings. As many as I dared of my own possessions were hidden among the baby's clothes and the food for the picnic.

Bully tried to keep the party jolly: chatting and laughing and calling for a song as our little sail took the brisk wind and we headed out across the bay. George remained pale and silent. No doubt he would soon be feeling ill.

We were well across the bay, heading towards the few houses on the opposite side, when the wind freshened. There was no sudden squall as Bully would later claim, but the water became rough and George was indeed miserable and seasick. Bully,
sitting in the stern, manned the tiller while I managed the boom, swinging it this way and that when Bully gave the order.

‘By the way,' said Bully casually to poor, green-faced George, ‘Mary and the baby will come with you. You don't mind keeping an eye on them in the meantime? The goldfields are no place for a nursemaid and baby. I will see that you are properly
recompensed
.'

We all knew Bully Hayes too well to dream for a moment that any recompense would be forthcoming.

For once in his life George lost his temper. ‘You have no right to ask me that!' he shouted. ‘It is bad enough leaving me alone like this. I will not take the baby! Oh!' He heaved his guts out over the side, but then immediately returned to the fray, his eyes streaming, head wagging back and forth. ‘Turn back, turn back!' he cried. ‘I will not take care of your child. You cannot make me! Turn back!'

He half rose from his position in the prow and grabbed at my rope, causing the boom to swing across, clipping Mary painfully. She dropped Adelaida into the slopping water in the bottom of the yacht. The boat rocked violently, taking in more water. Bully roared at George to sit down or he would have us all in the water.

‘I'd rather drown,' sobbed George. ‘Turn back. Oh Bully, take me with you!'

In a rage Bully seized one of the oars and used it, one-handed, to thrust at George. ‘You owe me a favour, George Buckingham,' he growled, ‘after ruining my reputation on the Arrow. Do you think for a moment I would take you near gold diggings again? Now sit down.'

Again he thrust with his oar at George, catching him in the chest and forcing the wind out of him. George slumped unevenly on his seat. At the same moment I was reaching for poor screaming Adelaida. Both movements proved too much for the yacht. The rocking and the rough sea caused a great deal of water to rush aboard. Bully had joked as we set out that we must all sit quiet as the boat was sitting low. He should have known, seaman that he was, that George's trunk, the picnic
basket and four full grown people were too much for the little craft. But he was determined to stick to his plan. Now we all gasped in alarm as we saw water rush aboard with every new wave. Under our sodden feet, she was sinking! Mary, in a panic, rose from her bench screaming, and grasped at Bully's arm. He shook her off angrily, but his face was ashen.

Faster than you could say a Hail Mary,
Waterwitch
sank. Silently, heavily, down she went. We were all were tossed into the sea: the picnic basket bobbing away; Mary screaming that she couldn't swim; me tearing at the ties of my heavy skirt while holding the baby's head above water. Oh, it was horrid pandemonium.

George seemed to have lost his mind. He swam at Bully, tore at his coat and started beating him over the head. George could swim: despite his seasickness he had no fear of water. He tried to pull the oar from Bully's grasp. While I struggled with Mary and Adelaida, those two men fought each other! I believe Bully gave George a tremendous clout with the oar: I have only a hazy memory of it, but I heard a crack and a pained grunt. Did George swim away then? Or sink immediately? I lost sight of him.

‘Bully, Bully!' I gasped. ‘Bring the other oar over here! Mary cannot swim!'

I had guided her arms to the oar, which she clung to as if to a lover, but that slender pole was not buoyant enough to support all three of us. By now I had managed to divest myself of my dragging skirt and jacket, but keeping the howling baby afloat was difficult in the rough seas. ‘Bully!' I shouted.

Bully was not a good swimmer. He heard me, I am sure, but took no notice, choosing to keep the other oar to himself, the coward. Did it cross his mind that this was a convenient way of ridding himself of all encumbrances? Perhaps. But I think the truth of the matter was that he feared drowning, like many seamen, and panic overcame any nobler instincts.

He swam away from us,
away from his own child
, towards the shore, pushing the precious oar ahead.

I have always been a strong swimmer. As a child I took to the
waters of the Mediterranean like a fish. At first I felt hopeful that I could guide the three of us safely to shore, which was not far away.

‘Kick, Mary, kick!' I exhorted her, but she was too frightened to listen. In her thrashing she loosened Adelaida from my shoulder, where the poor mite clung, screaming. I left Mary and the oar so I could snatch at my dear baby, but a wave washed her out of my grasping fingers. Oh, if only her clothing had not been so sodden! If only I had removed her shawl before I freed myself! Adelaida, my sweet, brave little girl, disappeared, sinking from my sight. In despair I searched the water, riding each wave to get a better view. Again and again I dived beneath the surface, but no shadowy form could I see, no drifting white shawl, no tiny reaching hand. From one quick moment to the next, the sea took her.

Alas. Oh black despair!

When I turned back towards the shore, there was no sign of Mary or the oar. As I rode the crest of a wave I thought I could see Bully, much nearer to land. No sign of another soul, nor of any floating thing which might assist me. By now the current was taking me out rather than in. As I floated, weak and desperate, I decided my best chance would be to go with the drift and see if I could make land at the far curve of the bay, where a line of rocks reached a finger of hope to this lonely, bereft swimmer.

It was rage, I believe, that gave me the strength to reach land. Rage at Bully Hayes and his mad decision to rid himself of George and Mary and my dear Adelaida; rage at his cowardly abandoning of us all. If he had stayed close when the yacht sank, perhaps the baby might have been saved. Together surely we would have managed. Alone, there was no hope. Adelaida was gone. Every time I rode the crest of a wave I searched for a sign. A scrap of clothing, a spread-eagled little body. Once I thought I saw her dark curls floating, and swam in hope towards the patch. Even her drowned body would be something. But it was a rope of black seaweed, not my poor daughter.

Keeping my eye on that line of rocks, I drifted in the chilly
water. Then, when I judged the time right, I kicked out with all the strength I could muster, fighting the current, gasping mouthfuls of air when my head rose above the waves.

I would not have survived, except that a small eddy — a separate, swirling current, caused by those dear rocks — pulled me to land. I had lost all strength, almost lost the will to keep going, when my fingers touched solid stone. The waves delivered me to the rampart, not with the crashing force which I had feared, but gently, as if they understood my exhaustion: bump, bump, into a tiny curve of sand, cupped between rocks.

I survived.

Lying there, between curving arms of rock, anguish overcame me. I sobbed to think of Adelaida drifting abandoned, unclaimed in the currents of Croixelles. For a while I simply wished to die, to join her in another world. But it is not in my nature, I believe, to despair for long. As the sun warmed and revived me I thought suddenly of Jack Lacey. Of his kindness and love; his honesty. I imagined a life with him on land; a warm dry home; safety. I resolved that if I could find him again, and if he were still free, I would marry him, bear his children and forget about the theatrical life forever. At that moment, safety and warmth seemed the most priceless gifts. In some sad, grieving way, I resumed the life of Lily Alouette. Rosa Buckingham I consigned to the sea, along with her drowned daughter. Rosa Buckingham was dead.

But Bully Hayes remained a threat. I raised my head above the protective rocks, then lowered it quickly. There, far away but unmistakable, was Bully, scrambling up the steep slope of a promontory, hand over hand, stopping now and then to gaze right and left along the coast. He was searching for signs of me, surely; not running along the beach where he might be of assistance but climbing higher! I dodged quickly back, drawing my poor scratched legs closer underneath my shredded petticoat.

My second glance showed him down on the beach again, walking back towards the
Black Diamond
. Had he really given up so quickly? Bully knew I was the better swimmer, would surely
suspect I had survived. Later, thinking about his odd actions that day, I came to believe that he hoped for my death and persuaded himself that this was what had happened. If I survived, I would surely tell of his despicable abandoning of us all. Bully was an overpowering man, and cruel, but he could not abide to be considered unmanly, or cowardly. His vanity, in small, petty ways, often astonished me. To be exposed as leaving wife and child to die in the sea, while he saved his own skin, would be, to a man like Bully, a sore loss of face. It is quite possible that if he had found me alive, he would have killed me, simply to keep the sordid truth hidden.

I lay low, grateful for the warming sun. Perhaps I slept. Later, as the sun left my little haven, I crawled up into the bush, found a stream and washed the salt from my hair and clothes. Two things became clear to my shocked and numbed mind: I must get to Nelson, and I must get there without attracting attention. This latter no easy matter as I wore only a tattered petticoat and bodice! If only I had that picnic basket, in the bottom of which lay Mary's bundle and my few possessions. I remembered it floating away as we all thrashed and fought in those first frightful moments when the
Waterwitch
sank. I sat up as a thought struck.
It floated!
Perhaps it had come to shore. What if the same current that brought me to this side of the bay had brought the picnic basket too?