Page 17 of Lizzie’s Spirit

Mr. Arnold began to speak, but Elizabeth silenced him with a wave of her hand.

“Let me finish, gentlemen. There are some conditions.” Ah, she bargained with the commodore of their convoy.

Would even a junior captain do such a thing, let alone a young woman just barely out in society?

Captain Pasco smiled. Clearly, Miss Bennet was a woman who was not intimidated by position and rank.

He admired this lady for her audacity. If it were within his power to accommodate her, he would—if her demands were not too extreme.

“Continue, Miss Bennet. What is your proposal?”

“The growing babes of pregnant women take all of their sustenance from the mother. Aboard ship, the rations for women are barely adequate for feeding one soul, let alone two once the quickening occurs. Therefore, firstly, women who are sufficiently into their term must be given a man’s ration; secondly, each such woman will receive half a pint of goat’s milk, more if it’s available; and thirdly, some fruit such as orange, pomegranate, and nectarine.

While I would prefer they drank no spirits, such a rule could not be enforced.

Imbibing spirits produces small, weak children of limited intellect; they die young; on the other hand, milk delivers strong bones and quick growth.

That’s my experience on my father’s estate. ”

There was no talk of special privileges, no talk of assigning further help with the Bents’ children. Her only concern was the well-being of the women under her care. The decision was obvious.

“Miss Bennet, we have an understanding.” Elizabeth arose, Captain Pasco also stood, and accompanied her to the cabin door, letting her into the passageway.

Turning back to Mr. Arnold, “A most remarkable woman. She’s young but so assured; she carries herself as a marchioness.

Could we refuse her anything?” Seated again at his desk, he gazed towards the closed cabin door.

“Mr. Arnold, we need a place where she can talk to the women in private. And pass the word—Miss Bennet is under my protection; her requests are my command.”

***

From: Hindostan, Bound for Rio de Janeiro

Dearest Mama—

I wished to write to you from Madeira, but due to a great southerly swell rolling into our anchorage, we left that place in a hurry.

You can see, from the direction, that I’m now at sea on a ship sailing across the Atlantic Ocean.

The Hindostan is a 50-gun man-o-war escorting Colonel Macquarie, the Governor of New South Wales, to New Holland.

Can you imagine, having lived all my life in Meryton visiting with but four and twenty families, I should now be on this great adventure travelling around the world!

Search out dear Papa’s great Atlas, and you can trace our journey: Portsmouth—Madeira—Rio de Janeiro—the Cape—Van Diemen’s Land—thence to Port Jackson in New South Wales.

The town at our destination is named Sydney, but perhaps it’s called Sydney Cove; I’m not sure.

I’m under the protection of Mr. Ellis Bent, who is commissioned as judge-advocate for the colony.

He’s travelling with his wife, Mrs. Eliza Bent, and two young children, Henry and little Beth, four and two years, respectively.

Mr. Bent is an acquaintance of Uncle Gardiner, and when I discovered their nurse was unable to travel, I immediately offered to journey in her stead—my desire to escape marriage to Mr. Collins was uppermost in my mind.

So, dear Mama, here I am far away from sweet England, but also beyond that odious man’s reach.

Perhaps it would be unwise to tell him where I am, although once he’s wed (to Charlotte Lucas?), I will be safe.

Madeira, as you’ll have discovered in the Atlas, is an island well off the coast of Africa.

It’s a Portuguese colony; fortunately, with my knowledge of Spanish, I was able to understand their speech, and they, me—well, my ear and tongue did struggle to learn the dialect.

Approached from the east, we came into a bay, the Funchal Roads, where visiting ships anchor.

It’s a poor anchorage open to the sea from the south, and many vessels are dragged by huge ocean swells onto the rocks and beaches.

Fortunately, our small flotilla escaped that fate!

From the sea, Madeira Island is a glorious sight.

Amongst the trees that cover the surface are the cedar, chestnut, orange, lemon, fig, citron, banana, and pomegranate.

The whole scenery, having a never-fading verdure, is peculiarly refreshing to the eye.

The company was greatly relieved to set foot on land, as we were plagued by heavy seas and gales the moment we left Portsmouth on the 22nd of May.

Looking towards the town of Funchal, we could see white-washed houses varying very much in size.

Immediately above the town rise the most immense mountains, the lower hills cultivated to the summit and besprinkled with the seats of the wealthy merchants, also white adorned.

There are innumerable vineyards, patches of Indian corn, wheat, and barley already quite ripe, interspersed with flowers and trees of the utmost splendour and beauty.

I include a sketch of the town, but as my drawing is very ill, perhaps you can find a better description in a picture book from the lending library.

In ‘05 Mr. John Turnbull published a good account in his journal ‘A Voyage Round the World’, but there are no pictures therein—the book was in the library of the British Consul, Mr. Veitch, who kindly accommodated us during our visit on shore.

But Papa also has a copy (on the lowest shelf near the window).

The weather while we lay at Funchal was always hot, the thermometer commonly standing at five and seventy degrees and rising to six and eighty where exposed to the sun.

The common people of the island are of tawny complexion and tolerably well-made, all having fine black eyes.

The inhabitants of the town are not nearly so healthy-looking as the country people, and the town is dirty, with much debris and stones littering the streets, which are extremely narrow.

While the houses of the merchants are very fine, there’s little else to recommend the place.

I confess I was glad to depart. Mrs. Bent became quite ill; thus, I was obliged to spend much time caring for the children and only managed two excursions.

The first was to the country estate ‘Quinta do Prazer’ of the wine merchant, William Phelps (who is known to Uncle Gardiner)—what a delightful place, where I was requested by the lady of the house to plant a tree, hence expanding the beautiful garden.

The second was where we visited the church of the Lady on the Mount, sited high on a hill overlooking the Roads.

Sweet Mama, you will be much astonished by what is related in the following.

Leaving Madeira, our convoy—the Hindostan, the Dromedary (a 24-gun storeship), and the Oxford (a merchant bound for the Cape)—made good time with mild weather and favourable winds, though at one time there were vivid flashes of lightning and heavy rain.

But there was much discontent amongst the wives of the regiment, there being some one hundred and fifty women on board (apart from the lady passengers and servants).

Sadly, a woman died giving birth, and the surgeon of the Dromedary was blamed, quite wrongly, for her death.

Naval surgeons are skilled at treating wounded men but, of course, have no training as midwives, there being few women, if any, on board a British warship.

You may question the wisdom of this, but I was requested by the commodore, Captain Pasco of the Hindostan, to aid and give comfort to the women of the regiment; well, only those who were with child!

Mrs. Pasco and Mrs. Bent are fine Ladies who owe their duty primarily to their children and husbands.

Next in rank, ‘tis I who am the senior Lady—thus the duty fell to me to provide guidance and care for the women.

Can you countenance this? Your daughter, brought up as a gentlewoman, is now seeing to the comfort of women of low rank, some from mercantile families but most from the vulgar classes, and many are native women from India.

I trust in time you will forgive me. But there’s naught else I can do—there are no midwives in the regiment and few women who have birthed before.

And of those, with the distinctions they maintain between the officers’ wives, the English wives, the Irish and Scottish wives, and the Indian wives with their myriad castes, few will assist another woman in her condition!

So it has fallen to me to listen to their woes, ameliorate their concerns, and provide extra sustenance when required—‘tis only I, as a gentlewoman, high in rank, and with the authority of the captain, to whom they will listen.

Life in the regiment and on board a ship is ofttimes difficult.

Children die, such as poor Private Evan Davis’s infant of a flux of the bowel and a young boy who had his leg amputated.

Yet there is also joy. On Wednesday, the 26th of July, the wife of Thomas Miller (a corporal of the 73rd) gave birth to a healthy girl.

But the mother’s travail was difficult. I’m sure you know not all women can give birth, as I understand it, as easily as the delivery of your five healthy daughters, though your travail with Lydia was long and tiring.