Christina Kline - The Exiles

Medea , 1840

Deep in the Indian Ocean, far from land, Evangeline saw creatures she’d only read about in legends: dolphins and porpoises leaping around the prow, bottlenose whales plunging in and out of the spray in the distance. One afternoon she noticed that the water was undulating with dozens of strange, translucent beings, some resembling cut lemons, others parasols that became luminous as light faded from the sky. It was as if the ship were gliding through molten fire.

“They’re known as jellyfish.”

Evangeline turned her head. Dr. Dunne was standing beside her, wearing dark trousers and a white shirt open at the collar. “Jellyfish?” She laughed. “It’s a surprise to see you out of uniform.”

He glanced down at himself. “I’ve been in surgery. A gangrenous leg.”

“Oh dear. Did you have to amputate?”

“I’m afraid so. He waited too long, as these sailors tend to do. Think they’re invincible.”

Watching the horizon line quiver in the heat, she asked, “How is Mr. Buck?”

“Rather . . . unhappy, as you might imagine. It was brave what you did, Miss Stokes.”

“Or foolhardy.”

“Bravery often is.”

She looked up into his greenish eyes, fringed with dark lashes.

A voice from behind them said, “Excuse me, sir.”

Dr. Dunne turned quickly. “Yes, sailor?”

“A convict is in labor and appears to be having a hard time of it. Can ye come?”

It was Olive. Hours later, long after the women had been bolted in for the night, Evangeline could hear her cries.

The next morning, after breakfast, she and Hazel paced the deck.

“It’s taking too long,” Hazel said.

“Do you think you could help?”

“I don’t know.”

Olive’s snaggletoothed sailor passed them, swigging from a bottle of rum.

A cry pierced the air.

“Maybe I could,” Hazel said.

“Let me ask.” Evangeline hurried to the ladder and descended into the gloom of the tween deck. A sailor standing outside the surgeon’s room moved to block the door.

“I need to see Dr. Dunne,” she said.

“You’re a convict.”

“Evangeline Stokes. Number one seventy-one. Will you let him know I’m here?”

The sailor shook his head. “No convicts allowed.”

“It’s urgent.”

The sailor looked her up and down. “You’re about to . . . ” He motioned at her belly.

“No, no,” she said impatiently. “Just—please. Tell him it’s me.”

He shook his head. “He’s busy, can’t ye tell?”

“Of course I can tell. I have someone who can help.”

“I’m sure the good doctor has things under control.”

“But—”

“Stop wasting me time.” He waggled his fingers to ward her off. “You’ll be seeing him soon enough.”

The day became interminably hot. Steam rose from the newly washed deck as if from a griddle. Hazel opened the Bible, mouthed some lines, closed it. Evangeline worked on her baby quilt, trying to concentrate on the stitches.

Olive’s cries lessened, then stopped.

Evangeline looked at Hazel. She wore a grim expression and was knitting and unknitting her fingers.

They didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.

The sun slid down the sky, its reflection puddling on the water before seeping underneath, like liquid on a porous surface. When the convicts were herded below decks, Hazel and Evangeline hunkered down in the stern, behind the wall of chicken crates.

A passing sailor, seeing them in the shadows, did a double take. “Hey, you two. They’re locking up.”

“We’re waiting for the surgeon.” Evangeline clutched her stomach. “I’m—I’m due.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

“Could you inform him?”

The sailor stared at them for a moment, clearly unsure of what to do. He swiped his hand at Hazel. “She don’t need to stay.”

“She’s a”—would it help or hurt to say it?—“a midwife.”

“Huh. Me auntie’s a midwife.”

“Is she, now?” Evangeline winced theatrically. “Oof. Will you please . . .”

As they watched him cross the deck and disappear down the ladder, Hazel whispered, “Well done.”

“Wish I’d thought of it earlier.”

A few minutes later, the sailor reemerged, followed by Dr. Dunne, grimly pale.

Evangeline stepped forward. “Is Olive—”

“She’s resting.”

“And the baby?” Hazel asked, behind her.

“Stillborn. I did what I could.”

“The cord around its neck,” Hazel said.

He nodded. Running his hands along the buttons of his jacket, he found the top one undone and buttoned it. “I was told a prisoner is in labor. Is that a lie?”

Evangeline swallowed. “I think it was . . . a false alarm.”

He gave her a sharp look. Turning to the sailor, he said, “To the orlop deck with both of them.”

Olive appeared on the main deck the next afternoon, her face as pale as dough, with deep hollows under her eyes. Evangeline brought her tea with purloined sugar. Hazel crushed dried chamomile blossoms and stirred them into the tea. “To soothe your nerves,” she said.

Olive had given birth to a boy, with a shock of dark hair and pearly fingernails. She glimpsed him for only a moment before he was covered with a towel and taken away.

They didn’t ask what became of him. They knew.

Clutching her bosom, Olive said, “Christ, they hurt.”

“Just your body doing what it’s meant to do. I can give ye something,” Hazel said.

She shook her head. “No. I want to feel it.”

“Why, Olive?” Evangeline asked.

She sighed. “I didn’t want the child. Many times I wished I was rid of it. But then . . . he was perfect. A perfect baby boy.” Tears glinted in her eyes. “God’s punishment.”

“Not God. Just the way it is sometimes,” Hazel said.

Evangeline nodded. For a moment all of them were quiet. Then she said, “Well, I don’t know if this will help, but . . .” She took a breath. “When you cut down a tree, you can tell how old it is by the rings inside. The more rings, the sturdier the tree. So . . . I imagine I’m a tree. And every moment that mattered to me, or person I loved, is a ring.” She put the flat of her hand on her chest. “All of them here. Keeping me strong.”

Olive and Hazel exchanged dubious glances.

“I know it sounds silly. But what I’m trying to say, Olive, is that I think your child is still with you. And he always will be.”

“Maybe so.” Shaking her head, Olive managed a small smile. “I never thought of meself as a tree, Leenie, but it doesn’t surprise me that ye do.”

“At least she made ye smile,” Hazel said.

Medea , 1840

The convicts had learned to watch the sky as closely as the sailors. So three days later, when the sky turned a sickly yellow, they knew that a big storm must be on the way. In early afternoon they were sent below decks. Wind lashed the sea into huge waves, sending the ship plunging into a deep crevasse, only to be borne to the crest and dropped again. Lightning tore through the sky, forking over the ship. The rain fell in torrents as sailors skidded along the deck, wrangling ropes and pulleys. Climbing the shroud of the foremast, they swayed like flies in a spiderweb.

As the ship lurched and tilted, the orlop deck was thrown into chaos. Women were dumped from their berths, groaning with seasickness, screaming and crying in terror. Water seeped through cracks above, streaming onto their heads. Bibles flew through the air; children wailed. Evangeline tied a corner of her blanket to her bedpost and tucked the rest around her, a makeshift hammock. She huddled close to the wall, fingers in her ears, and somehow, improbably, drifted to sleep.