Page 11 of Lizzie’s Spirit

From: Hindostan at Sea, Bay of Biscay

Dear Aunt—

There is nothing certain about travelling by ship: hardly had we got underway when the ‘main top-gallant yard’ broke (see, I’m already nautical!).

This required us to lay to, until the damage was repaired.

The same day, once again under sail, we gave chase to two vessels that hoisted Swedish colours.

The commodore, Captain Pasco, gave up the chase but was very suspicious of them—perhaps Frenchies flying under false colours?

The above was written two days ago. Now, we are into the Bay of Biscay.

But see how my words are formed ill indeed; ‘tis like I’m still in the nursery; there’s a heavy gale that makes the ship labour greatly, as it rolls, pitches, and yaws.

I hear great bangs and commotion coming from the gun room beneath us—I fear there are trunks and barrels not cleated, which are dashing about.

I must leave off and see to the children; Mrs. Bent will be unwell, and the noise is quite deafening.

Oh, my dear Aunt!—I need to relate the following; it has left me quite unsettled and thrown my thoughts into disarray.

But please, please do not tell Mrs. Bennet of what I write.

She would be truly upset at my impropriety, but what else was I to do?

On Friday last, the 2nd of June, we were still buffeted by a contrary wind that knocked us about most violently.

Everyone was heartily tired of such stormy weather, and tempers were frayed.

I chanced to hear the surgeon, Mr. Joseph Arnold, in heated conversation with Capt.

Pasco (‘twas difficult not to hear, as they stood blocking the passage to my cabin):

“I’m confounded as to what to do. She’s moaning and groaning, and disrupting the women and children. But she’ll let none near her, only her husband, Sergeant William Monogan.”

“But why don’t the other women attend her? Woman’s business is their affair, nothing of which I wish to be involved,” replied the captain, tersely.

“She is Indian, as are most of the wives—perhaps the other women are a different caste, tribe, or religion; I know not. They won’t touch her, and she’ll not let them come near.

She screamed when I came close. I fear it’s upon her own head, come what may, and ‘tis likely that she, the child, or both, will die.”

Foolish me—stepping forward, I proposed I would visit with the woman to see what could be done to relieve her distress.

“Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Arnold, “below decks is not a place for a gentlewoman.” But of course, I could not be dissuaded, and I think both men were satisfied to dispose of the matter.

Capt. Pasco told a passing midshipman to guide me to the lower deck where Mrs. Monogan was settled.

Descending below decks was akin to entering Hades.

With the smell of unwashed bodies and damp seeping through the planks, I would have been unsurprised to encounter Charon rowing across the Acheron, the river of misery and woe.

I almost gagged and turned back, except, recalling Mama’s courage in confronting Mr. Collins, I persevered.

Mrs. Monogan was standing, stooped rather, in a dimly lit corner of the deck; her swollen belly pushing tightly against her cotton shift.

She was indeed groaning and grumbling in a language I didn’t understand.

Nearby lay a man slumped on the floor timbers.

“Sergeant Monogan!” cried I. He started, obviously slumbering.

He sprang to his feet, a smallish man, somewhat shorter than I. “Ma’am, ‘tis no place for a lady!”

I heartily agreed, but ‘twas too late for such fragile feminine sensitivity. “Take your wife, sergeant, follow the midshipman. We go to the dispensary.” The woman shrieked, a loud, anguished sound, and threw off her husband’s hand.

Some inner strength—or perhaps a weakness in my womanly demeanour—came over me.

I rounded on the woman, looked her straight in her dark eyes, which returned my glare with insolence, but underneath I perceived pain and distress.

“Come!” I exclaimed, “Ma'am, I am a gentlewoman, your superior on this vessel. Captain Pasco has sent me, and I will not be dissuaded from carrying out my purpose.”

Abruptly, her shoulders slumped, she allowed her husband to guide her to the dispensary, where, in the privacy of a small cabin, rested a narrow cot, upon which lay a coarse canvas mattress stuffed with straw.

So, here am I, dear Aunt, unmarried and a maiden—to give comfort to an Indian woman who is about to birth a child?

Clearly, God in his omniscience knew what was to come.

Recall my dear Mama chastising me for pulling lambs (when I was but ten years) and holding the hand of our cottager, Mrs. Browning, when she delivered little Sarah, who is now some four years old.

(In her wisdom, my mother forbade me such activities as unladylike.) When I left Longbourn, I retrieved a book in German from Mr. Bennet’s library; mistakenly, I thought the manuscript a history of the Brandenburg Court, but ‘twas a manual on midwifery.

I have it in my sea chest and read much of it: ‘Die chur-Brandenburgische Hoff-Wehe-Mutter—the Brandenburg Court Midwife’.

Am I alone? No, it is clear God guides me.

“Sergeant, how long has your wife been such?” His poor wife was again groaning, rubbing her back, and walking stiffly in the tiny cabin.

“Praps four hours, since the forenoon watch, they’ve just struck eight bells.”

What to do? I thought of you, my sweet Aunt, having birthed two children.

Mrs. Bent and Mrs. Pasco each having born the same.

I could not consult such fine ladies—it would be highly unseemly for them, in their high positions, to assist a soldier’s wife.

Whilst I, a young, foolish girl, would suffer little censure.

Outside the cabin on a bench sat the servant of the surgeon.

I sent him off to gather a basin of water together with a strong soap, fresh straw for the floor, and fresh blankets to clean and swaddle the child once it comes.

Her husband I sent off to rest (as he seemed quite fatigued) but to return at every ship’s bell.

Now was the time for me to seek acquaintance with my patient.

La! I’m to be a physician, a midwife, an accoucheur!

Mrs. Monogan was now sitting on the mattress; I placed myself next to her, taking her hand in mine.

This she allowed, for she took some comfort from my presence.

As I gently stroked her palm, she relaxed, her shoulders no longer stiff.

Her hand was dark brown and calloused from hard work; mine white and soft (bare, as no gloves are worn on board!).

Could there be a greater disparity in our station?

But instinctively I knew she was a gentle soul.

Whence she came to be the wife of a soldier, I knew not.

What hardships and privations had she endured? How old? I cannot tell.

We sat in silence, each affording the other some tranquillity of mind.

Then, hesitantly, I asked her name: ‘Harshita’, she murmured.

I later found it meant ‘joy’ or ‘happiness’.

So far from the place she now found herself.

Softly, she responded to my queries. Her pains were about five minutes apart, each lasted perhaps a minute.

I determined to count the time to ensure these were regular and not the irregular pains of false travail.

How I lament my insatiable curiosity led me to read that book.

Oh, dear Aunt, there are so many perils in giving birth: does the child lie right in the womb; does it press against the sharebone; is its head too large; does it face upwards; does it lie crooked so it cannot enter the birth passage?

I was afraid both for myself and for Harshita.

For myself, because I scarcely knew what I was about, and for Harshita, because I did not know how to relieve her pain and suffering.

As our Dear Lord hath said: In pain thou shalt bring forth children.

Harshita is not Christian. Yet she felt my nervousness and gave me succour.

Taking my hand, she murmured words of consolation to me—I who should be soothing her.

My Brandenburg midwife states the only way to determine true labour is to examine the mouth of the womb—if the mouth is closed, there’s nothing to be done.

If the mouth is open, I could comfort Harshita by telling her how much the mouth changes over time: when fully open, the babe will come.

The mouth of the womb—the most private part of a woman—how is one to approach such a thing?

Faciendum est —it must be done. Shyly, I told Harshita I needed to examine her…

intimately. She recoiled almost as much as I.

I continued to stroke her palm; then, during a strong pain, I reached up and massaged her shoulders.

Her groaning subsided. Sh e looked at me with tears in her eyes; for me, a white woman not of her religion, to examine her was a violation of her inner self; yet, she mumbled her assent.

I gained her trust! Not by words, but by simple acts of comfort and care.

All the while the ship was rolling in a very heavy sea, its timbers groaning and creaking, the smell of salt water breaching the hatches pervading the dispensary.

The small cabin was quite dark apart from the weak glow of an oil lantern swinging from a blackened bracket affixed to the oak frame of the vessel.