The church was more than two miles up the hill. Being the feast of San Antonio, the walls were hung with scarlet tapestry fringed with gold; the floor was strewn with sweet-smelling flowers and leaves and was lit with at least five hundred candles. On leaving the church, they descended to the town. The streets were narrow, crooked, and dirty, often paved with small, pointed pebbles that pierced through the soles of their shoes at every step. The mountain rills trickled through some of the streets in their passage to the bay, but instead of contributing to the cleanliness of the town, these little streamlets produced every kind of nuisance. There, the inhabitants washed their clothes, cleaned their fish, deposited the offal of butchers’ shops, emptied the contents of their night machines, and, in short, brought together all the filthy and offensive materials that were collected in the town.
By chance, to escape the ordure littering the streets, they went into a church where a young woman was taking the veil. The ritual was of too much interest to permit their quitting the spot till the ceremony was over. The young woman was attended bytwo noble Ladies in full dress; she was also adorned with flowers in her hair.
“She’s so young,” said Elizabeth, “no older than I. Why would she take the veil when her whole life is ahead of her?”
The girl sat on the steps opposite the altar, a Lady on each side of her, who endeavoured to support her spirits with cheerful conversation. She did her best to support their efforts, but with a visible struggle. Elizabeth pushed forward to hear the conversation and crouched very near to her. A long time passed before the arrival of the priest. While they waited for him, those Ladies next to Elizabeth told her the convent to which this poor girl was so soon to belong was the strictest ever known. The nuns were so poor they were obliged to labour very hard for their support, and with all that, the situation of the convent was so extremely damp and unwholesome that the nuns died at a very early age.
“Is there a bride price? Are the nuns paid to take the girl? Where are her father or mother to prevent such a travesty?” Elizabeth looked around her, but not one of those attending came forward even though she spoke in the local Portuguese dialect. The Ladies looked at her and shrugged: this was the way of the world—such a girl was a burden to her family, and with no dowry, it would shame her father to have her marry.
At last, the priest, attended by a member of his order, arrived; he was a very old man and went up to the altar—the girl knelt at his feet. The priest read for some time in Latin and then murmured: Venite, filiae, audite me, timorem Domini docebo vos—Come, daughters, hear me, I will teach you the fear of the Lord. He looked confused when he saw only one novitiate, not many. At length, he finished.
The young girl was led in procession to the door of the convent, which opened to receive her; the nuns within appeared all dressed in black with a large piece of black cloth thrown over their heads, which was so thick as to concealeven the form of their bodies; they had truly an inhuman appearance. At this moment, a person pressed forward through the crowd, crying loudly in distress; she was soon known to be the mother of the young woman. Room was made for her to pass; she arrived at the spot where her daughter stood to take her last embrace.
“Enough!” cried Elizabeth, tears streaming from her eyes. “Is there no one to help this girl? Surely no one here wishes this!” Taking out her purse, she withdrew the contents, five gold guineas, and held them aloft. Oh, she wished it so, that five guineas could buy the girl’s freedom. Both Darcy and Captain Grant stepped forward. The captain spoke rapidly to the mother, who motioned towards a swarthy, dark-skinned man standing towards the rear of the crowd—her father, who was preventing a younger man from stepping forward. The young man cried out, “Isabella, no! Here is money for the priest and your father!”
The captain again spoke rapidly, this time to the father and young man. “It’s not enough; the father says five guineas and the meagre sum the young boy has are not enough for the priest and himself. The girl has been promised to the nuns—there’s little that can be done. There’s shame if she withdraws.”
Until that moment, the girl had supported herself, but the sight of her mother and her lover totally overcame her; her head fell on her breast, and she sobbed aloud in an agony of grief. At this, Darcy stepped forward and asked Captain Grant what price would purchase the girl’s freedom. The captain gave the sum but explained that the boy, who was the girl’s betrothed, and the girl could not remain in Funchal. The girl had been inducted into the convent; to flee from it would be a sin against the church.
At that moment, a great flare erupted in the sky: the recall to the vessels—the wind had veered to the south.
“We must leave immediately.” Colonel Macquarie took hiswife’s arm and beckoned for Mr. and Mrs. Bent to follow. He turned back to Darcy: “Save them if you can. You have my support. But there’s little time. See to Miss Bennet; she’s much distressed.”
“Captain, take Miss Bennet to the beach; she must be taken to theHindostan. I’ll follow shortly.” Darcy turned back.
Elizabeth allowed the captain to pull her away. She saw herself in the young girl, both forced into marriage—for the girl, to Christ; for herself, to Collins—to save their families from ruin or censure. But how could there be a loving God if He should force a young girl against her will to wed His Son? She could not explain it.
Some short time later, Elizabeth stood on the beach, waiting to board one of the flat-bottomed boats of the natives. Already, Mr. and Mrs. Bent, their children, Hannah, and their baggage had departed the shore for theHindostan. She was the last of the party to leave. As she swung over the stern of the boat, she heard a young woman remonstrating with the boatmen. “Let her come,” she called in Portuguese. Isabella ran quickly to the boat and swiftly climbed on board. Looking further along the beach, Elizabeth saw Mr. Darcy board another boat together with the young man from the church—Isabella’s betrothed, Raimundo—to be taken aboard theDromedary.
On board theHindostan, she called Isabella to accompany her to where Sgt. Monogan was standing on the upper deck. “Sergeant, take this young woman to Harshita and see to her care. She travels with us to Rio de Janeiro. Tell all she is undermyprotection.”
Climbing to the quarterdeck, Elizabeth looked out upon Funchal, which, as theHindostanraised anchor and pointed seaward, would fast become yet another retreating cloud on the horizon. The Island of Madeira was certainly one of the most beautiful and romantic places she had ever seen; topersons long at sea, and who had suffered illness and bad weather, the sight of Funchal is the most gratifying imaginable. Yet, after a few days on shore, the lack of fresh air and the great heat, the total exclusion from all kinds of exercise, the hardness of the very steep roads and their being paved with small, sharp stones, and, above all, the filth of the inhabitants became so disgusting that she could never reconcile herself to witness it with indifference—all of which served to show how many comforts were necessary to make life agreeable for someone accustomed to living in England. A sudden fear gripped her: New Holland was a raw, unknown place. If Madeira, which had been settled for some four hundred years, could alienate her so, how would she find the colony at Port Jackson, settled for a mere twenty years? Elizabeth went below to find the children; they were her sweet comfort on this long, long journey.
Chapter 8
Atlantic Ocean, August 7, 1809
On the deck of theDromedary, Darcy watched the boy, Raimundo, climb the rigging as the ship tacked a point off south by southwest. A further eight guineas, in addition to Miss Bennet’s five, secured the girl’s release from the convent. Her father took most of the gold for himself, placing two guineas in the pocket of the priest’s robe and passing another to the nuns. Darcy held the boy’s paltry contribution in a purse to be returned to him once they arrived at Rio de Janeiro. A fisherman, he had saved everything to secure his bride—but for the avaricious father, that was not enough; he preferred the indulgence of the church to securing the happiness of his daughter. Darcy was disgusted by the affair, but he would move on. For him, eight guineas was a minor amount, but for Miss Bennet, five guineas was a substantial sum—yet she had willingly given it up to assist a stranger, a Catholic no less, with whom she had no connection. Her charity, her rectitude, was all that was admirable.
“Raimundo’s a monkey, isn’t he?” Captain Pritchard came to stand next to Darcy. “If all my crew could climb like him, I could sail with half their number. Could I tempt him to stay on for the voyage to New Holland?”
“My apologies, Captain, but he was promised release at Rio de Janeiro—I gave my word. His betrothed journeys on theHindostan, under the care of Miss Bennet.”
“Lovely lady, Miss Bennet. Her performance on the guitar is magnificent. I’ve never heard the like before. I would prefer, perhaps, an English tune such asRobin Adair, but her voice is quite compelling, whatever the language.”
“She has a natural gift, indeed.” Thank the Lord, Darcy mused, that such a gem was not forced to marry dross such as Mr. Collins. “How long to Brazil, sir? This part of the voyage is not unpleasant but still feels tedious, even if we have not experienced any of the gales and heavy seas that rendered the voyage to Madeira so uncomfortable. It’s a far longer journey?”
“We should make landfall come the end of July, by my reckoning; it’s now the 5th. We’ll arrive some eleven weeks from St. Helen’s Roads, whereas Funchal was some four weeks from the same. Excuse me, Mr. Darcy, but the fore-topsail isn’t properly set and requires trimming.” The captain turned to the Officer of the Watch to correct the issue. Darcy gazed ahead to where theHindostanset the pace in the light wind. He hoped to glimpse chestnut curls promenading on the quarterdeck or poop.
“Captain Pritchard, Colonel O’Connell, and Mr. Carter have come aboard. Shall I fetch Mr. Arnold and bring the gentlemen to your cabin?” On the affirmative, the midshipman brought the men to Captain Pasco’s day cabin, where he sat at his table. He waved to his guests that they should be seated.
“Gentlemen, thank you for attending me. I believe there is a problem with the wives of the regiment?”
“Indeed, sir,” responded the colonel, “on theDromedarythere’s much discord, not unusual for such a long journey as ours, but I fear, over time, the discontent will grow worse.”
“Please refresh my memory. What is our disposition of women?”
Mr. Arnold looked at his notebook. “At St. Helens, four and fifty women embarked theDromedaryand seven and ninety women theHindostan…”
