The irons slowed them down, and it took more than an hour to shuffle to the waterfront. The river was busy with ships, barges, ferries and rafts, for the strikes were over, crushed by the troops. It was a warm spring morning. Sunlight glinted oft the muddy Thames. A boat was waiting to take them out to their ship, which was anchored in midstream. Mack read its name: “The Rosebud.”

“Is it a Jamisson ship?” said Cora.

“I think most of the convict ships are.”

As he stepped from the muddy foreshore into the boat, Mack realized this would be the last time he stood on British soil for many years, perhaps forever. He had mixed feelings: fear and apprehension mingled with a certain reckless excitement at the prospect of a new country and a new life.

Boarding the ship was difficult: they had to climb the ladder in pairs with the leg irons on. Peg and Cora managed easily enough, being young and nimble, but Mack had to carry Barney. One pair of men fell into the river. Neither the guards nor the sailors did anything to help them, and they would have drowned if the other prisoners had not reached out and pulled them back into the boat.

The ship was about forty feet long by fifteen wide. Peg commented: “I’ve burgled drawing rooms that were bigger than this, by Christ.” On deck were hens in a coop, a small pigsty, and a tethered goat. On the other side of the ship a magnificent white horse was being hoisted out of a boat with the help of the yardarm used as a crane. A scrawny cat bared its fangs at Mack. He had an impression of coiled ropes and furled sails, a smell of varnish, and a rocking motion underfoot; then they were shoved across the lip of a hatch and down a ladder.

There seemed to be three lower decks. On the first, four sailors were eating their midday meal, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by sacks and chests that presumably contained supplies for the voyage. On the third, all the way down at the foot of the ladder, two men were stacking barrels, hammering wedges between them so that they could not move during the voyage. At the level of the middle deck, which was obviously for the convicts, a sailor roughly pulled Mack and Barney off the ladder and shoved them through a doorway.

There was an odor of tar and vinegar. Mack peered at his surroundings in the gloom. The ceiling was an inch or two above his head: a tall man would have to stoop. It was pierced by two gratings that admitted a little light and air, not from outside but from the enclosed deck above, which itself was lit by open hatches. Along both sides of the hold were wooden racks, six feet wide, one at waist height and one a few inches off the floor.

With horror Mack realized the racks were for the convicts to lie on. They would be spending the voyage on these bare shelves.

They shuffled along the narrow walkway between the rows. The first few berths were already occupied by convicts lying flat, still chained in pairs. They were quiet, stunned by what was happening to them. A sailor directed Peg and Cora to lie next to Mack and Barney, like knives in a drawer. They took their positions, and the sailor roughly shoved them closer together, so that they were touching. Peg was able to sit upright but the grown-ups were not, for there was not enough headroom. The best Mack could do was to prop himself on one elbow.

At the end of the row Mack spotted a large earthenware jar, about two feet high, cone shaped with a broad flat base and a rim about nine inches across. There were three others around the hold. They were the only items of furniture visible, and he realized they were the toilets.

“How long will it take to get to Virginia?” said Peg.

“Seven weeks,” he said. “If we’re lucky.”

Lizzie watched as her trunk was carried into the large cabin at the rear of the Rosebud. She and Jay had the owner’s quarters, a bedroom and a day room, and there was more space than she had expected. Everyone talked of the horrors of the transatlantic voyage, but she was determined to make the best of it and try to enjoy the novel experience.

Making the best of things was now her philosophy of life. She could not forget Jay’s betrayal—she still clenched her fists and bit her lip every time she thought of the hollow promise he had made on their wedding day—but she tried always to push it to the back of her mind.

Only a few weeks ago she would have been thrilled by this trip. Going to America was her great ambition: it was one of the reasons she had married Jay. She had anticipated a new life in the colonies, a more free-and-easy, outdoor existence, without petticoats or calling cards, where a woman could get dirt under her fingernails and speak her mind like a man. But the dream had lost some of its glow when she learned of the deal Jay had made. They ought to call the plantation “Twenty Graves,” she thought moodily.

She tried to pretend that Jay was as dear to her as ever, but her body told the truth. When he touched her at night she did not respond as she once had. She would kiss and caress him, but his fingers did not scorch her skin, and his tongue no longer seemed to reach all the way inside to touch her soul. Once upon a time the mere sight of him had made her moist between the legs; now she surreptitiously oiled herself with cold cream before getting into bed, otherwise intercourse hurt her. He always ended up groaning and gasping with pleasure as he spilled his seed inside her, but there was no such culmination for her. Instead she was left with an unfulfilled feeling. Later, when she heard him snoring, she would console herself with her fingers, and then her head would fill with strange images, men wrestling and whores with exposed breasts.

But her life was dominated by thoughts of the baby. Her pregnancy made her disappointments seem less important. She would love her baby without reservation. The child would become her life’s work. And he, or she, would grow up a Virginian.

As she was taking off her hat there was a tap at the cabin door. A wiry man in a blue coat and a three-cornered hat stepped inside and bowed. “Silas Bone, first mate, at your service, Mrs. Jamisson, Mr. Jamisson,” he said.

“Good day to you, Bone,” Jay said stiffly, assuming the dignity of the owner’s son.

“Captain’s compliments to you both,” Bone said. They had already met Captain Parridge, a dour, aloof Kentishman from Rochester. “We’ll get under way at the turn of the tide,” Bone went on. He gave Lizzie a patronizing smile. “However, we’ll be within the Thames estuary for the first day or two, so madam need not worry about bumpy weather just yet.”

Jay said: “Are my horses on board?”

“Yes sir.”

“Let’s have a look at their accommodation.”

“Certainly. Perhaps Mrs. J. will stay and unpack her little bits and pieces.”

Lizzie said: “I’ll come with you. I’d like to take a look around.”

Bone said: “You’ll find it best to stay in your cabin as much as possible on the voyage, Mrs. J. Sailors are rough folk and the weather is rougher.”

Lizzie bridled. “I have no intention of spending the next seven weeks cooped up in this little room,” she snapped. “Lead the way, Mr. Bone.”

“Aye-aye, Mrs. J.”

They stepped out of the cabin and walked along the deck to an open hatch. The mate scampered down a ladder, agile as a monkey. Jay went after him and Lizzie followed. They went to the second of the lower decks. Daylight filtered down from the open hatch, and it was augmented a little by a single lamp on a hook.

Jay’s favorite horses, the two grays, and the birthday present, Blizzard, stood in narrow stalls. Each had a sling under its belly, attached to a beam overhead, so that if it lost its footing in heavy seas it could not fall. There was hay in a manger at the horses’ heads, and the deck below them was sanded to protect their hooves. They were valuable beasts and would be hard to replace in America. They were nervous and Jay petted them for a while, speaking to them soothingly.