PROLOGUE
October 26 1859
How can it be?
I stand on the edge of a high cliff. Holding back hair that whips across my face, I shield my eyes and squint through the stinging wind. Lifeless bodies dash against the rocks beneath me.
The ship disappears beneath the surface, battered by one huge wave after another. Rain mixes with tears that burn my eyes, and I feel as if I have woken from a nightmare of such terror my whole world has become horribly distorted. I know the sea. I have lived with the ocean all my life. I have been raised to respect Mother Nature, and to underestimate at my peril the power of the ocean. But I have never witnessed such a storm as this.
How can it be?
I have no memory of reaching this cliff. The last thing I remember was being wrapped in mother’s arms on the rolling deck as my Da strapped a belt around my waist.
‘Women and children first,’ he said. ‘Now, hush! You keep your hand on this belt, it’s all we own in the world, my angel. My precious angel. You keep it safe for your Da. And you take good care of your mam. I’ll see you on the other side.’
Cold lips press into my cheek. Calloused palms cup my face for the merest of seconds. ‘The other side of where?’ I want to ask. But he’s gone and the ship is lurching violently beneath my feet.
“Da! Help … help me!”
A sound like a gunshot rips through the air.
‘Port anchor’s let go!’ someone shouts. ‘Sweet Lord! Brace the yeards, lads, starboard won’t take the strain, else!’
I bury my head in my mother’s bosom; she wraps her shawl around me. The shrieking wind carries away the sounds of crying children, sobbing women, men barking orders. I cover my ears as strong hands lift me, push me towards the lifeboat. I grasp my mother’s hand tighter.
Bang!
‘Starboard anchor’s gone! We’re heading for the rocks! Get Captain Taylor!’
Seconds later, a ripping noise shakes the whole ship. The wooden deck shudders, and the bow gives out a loud moan. The ship tilts and I lose footing, screaming as I slide towards the inky blackness, pulled by the weight of the leather pockets about my waist.
Water engulfs me.
Coldness engulfs me.
Darkness engulfs me.
How can it be?
I watch from the cliff edge as a pale dawn breaks. No golden rising sun, no blue skies, no welcoming warmth – just a gradual fading of blackness into misty grey.
The Royal Charter – the steamship that has carried my family from Hobson’sBay,Australiato a ‘better life’ inEngland– is still being pounded by the storm. With every massive wave that crashes over her, I expect the ship to disappear, but after each surge of the tide she reappears as if trapped by the jagged rocks and unable to find release.
Bodies are pulled and tossed by the furious tide, pushed inland one minute and dragged back into the white foam the next. Men I’d seen issuing orders; women I’d spoken to; children I’d spent many hours with over the past weeks. I close my ears to the screams and cries that circle my head like squawking gulls.
I stand there for seconds, minutes, hours, days … I know not.
The spray of the ocean is on my face. I hear the roar in my ears. I taste the salt on my lips.
But I know it cannot be. I know this cannot be real.
The truth hits me. Bile fills my mouth; I double over and retch.
When I straighten, I stand in silence and calmness. The storm still rages all around me. But I am protected. As if in the eye of the hurricane, my own space is quiet and still.
The answer is suddenly clear.
My name is Angelina Stewart.
I am eleven years old.
And I am dead.
