SS Hindustan, Arabian Sea
15th March, 1885
My Dearest Mary,
Three weeks have passed since I watched the grey shores of England fade into the morning mist, and still I find myself counting the days until I might see your dear face again. Yet I write to you now with a heart full of purpose and hope, knowing that every league we travel brings us closer to the prosperity that has so long eluded our family.
The conditions aboard this vessel are far from the comfort I had imagined when the John Taylor & Sons representative spoke so eloquently of our passage to India. We are packed into steerage like herrings in a barrel, with barely space to swing a cat, let alone find privacy to pen a letter. The air below deck grows thick with the breath of nearly two hundred souls – miners like myself, clerks bound for the colonial service, and a handful of soldiers returning to their regiments. The stench of unwashed bodies, stale food, and the ever-present dampness makes our little cottage in Holbeck seem like a palace by comparison.
I confess, my love, that the first week brought such sickness as I have never known. The Bay of Biscay lived up to its fearsome reputation, and I thought surely I would die from the violent retching that seized me. Poor Jenkins from the Middleton pit was so ill that we feared for his life, though he has recovered his colour somewhat now that we’ve reached calmer waters. The ship’s surgeon, a weathered man named Dr. Cartwright, told us that seasickness claims more dignity than lives, and indeed, I find myself able to take a bit of salt pork and hardtack without immediately losing it to the waves.
The hierarchy aboard this ship reminds me greatly of the pit – those with means travel in first-class comfort above, whilst we below make do with what we’re given. Yet I’ve found fellowship amongst my fellow miners, men who understand the weight of coal dust in their lungs and the ache of long hours in the dark. There’s a fellow from Barnsley, William Hartwell, who worked two seasons in the Ceylon tea plantations before returning home. He speaks of the heat and the strangeness of foreign lands, but also of opportunities that simply don’t exist in Yorkshire anymore.
“The thing about India,” he told me yesterday as we watched the sun set over endless water, “is that a man with skills can make something of himself if he’s willing to work for it. Not like home, where every pit seems to be cutting wages or laying off men.”
His words give me comfort, for I know my twenty years below ground at Middleton have taught me more about rock and earth than most men will ever know. The recruiter assured me that my experience with difficult seams and water problems would serve me well in the gold fields, and I pray he spoke truthfully.
Do you remember, my darling, how young William asked me why I couldn’t simply dig for gold in our own garden? I told him that God had placed the treasure in distant lands to test men’s courage and determination. As I write these words, I wonder if I spoke more truly than I knew. The other passengers speak of fortunes made and lost, of men who returned home wealthy beyond imagining, and others who never returned at all. Yet when I think of our little Mary’s worn boots and the way you’ve had to stretch every penny these past months, I know I made the right choice in coming.
The ship’s bell has just rung eight times, and the evening meal is being served. Tonight we’ll have tinned beef and ship’s biscuit, washed down with weak tea that tastes of metal and salt. But I’ve grown accustomed to such fare, and my stomach has finally found its sea legs. Tomorrow, if the wind holds, we should sight the coast of Arabia, and from there it’s but a few days to Bombay.
I dream of you every night, my love. Sometimes I wake thinking I can smell the bread you bake on Sundays, or hear little Margaret’s laughter echoing through our kitchen. Tell the children that their father thinks of them with every sunrise, and that he’s working towards a future where they’ll never know want as we have known it. The John Taylor & Sons contract promises wages that will make a real difference to our family – enough to pay off our debts, perhaps even to send the children to school properly.
Kiss our little ones for me, and tell them I’m sailing towards a land where the sun shines every day and the earth holds treasures beyond counting. When I return – and I shall return, Mary, you must never doubt that – I’ll bring with me not just gold, but stories of wonders they can barely imagine. Until then, keep this letter close to your heart and know that every word is written with love.
Your devoted husband,
William Baldwin
P.S. – The purser tells us we should reach Bombay by the 25th of March. I shall write again as soon as I’m able, though I’m told the post from India can be irregular. Do not worry if you don’t hear from me for some weeks – I am well and strong, and thinking always of home.
Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.
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