Yet, despite the hardships and tragedies, he had heard the master telling the Fifth Lieutenant that the passage had been made in record time due to the almost constant gales. Even so, he was glad of some warmer and quieter seas now they had left Van Diemen’s Land behind them and could hope for some brief respite in harbour. The weather was warmer, and their clothes, long damp and salt laden so they chafed the skin, were drying. The southerly breeze was almost a soldier’s wind as it pushed the convoy up the eastern seaboard of this great island at an easy pace. They were glad to be rid of the cold, harsh winds driving spray, rain and sometimes sleet at every opportunity.
With his fifteenth birthday now behind him, Ferghal had been promoted from powder monkey to a junior position on the number eight gun on the lower gun deck. His place had been taken by Cormac, who was no longer a frightened, half-starved convict, but a useful member of the ship’s company. The boy was popular among his peers, a dancer of some repute and one of Harry’s staunchest defenders, always alert for skulduggery, which he promptly conveyed to Ferghal.
Ferghal’s new rate meant he accepted the charge and then the ball or shot and placed it in the muzzle to be rammed home by another member of the crew. He was quick witted and nimble, and the gunner had told him that he could one day look forward to being entrusted with his own gun and crew if not to higher things as long as he kept all his limbs and fingers and didn’t get killed in between.
He finished his latest task of splicing some replacement lines for the boatswain and began to gather his tools, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his back.
The Dutch boy who had attached himself to Harry watched with interest. “What is’t uwe make?” he asked.
“Mister Billing required that I splice these,” Ferghal explained, demonstrating as he added, “Then I must whip and parcel the splices. They are for some falls which must be re-rove.”
The boy looked blank for a moment, so Ferghal pointed to the lines supporting the yardarms and explained that these and several others used for hoisting or suspending items were called falls. This seemed to satisfy Pieterzoon’s curiosity for the moment, and after a pause he asked, “When we go to zis Botany Bay, ve leave zis ship. Ja?”
“Perhaps, to be sure I do not know.” Ferghal smiled. The boy was good at the music and had been permitted to join Ferghal and the other seamen whenever they were able to enjoy a “make and mend”—a more frequent diversion now the weather as fair. Such pleasantries had been few and far between in the last months.
“Zen I do not want to reach zis place.” Pieterzoon frowned. “I do not want to leave zis ship—mijn vriende is allemal hier bij.”
Ferghal laughed. “To be sure you’ll have to be discussing that with the Captain,” he said kindly. It was evident to everyone that this Dutch boy was as determined and quick witted as his apparent hero. He had taken to copying Harry’s mannerisms and even his way of dealing with the men in his charge. It had become something of a joke in the wardroom and on the lower deck.
Midshipman Barclay and his cronies had rapidly discovered that the child was also very quick to spot any underhanded action. He had several times saved Harry from their machinations, and again had spared Ferghal from yet another attempt by Barclay. It was strange, Ferghal reflected, that they knew very little about Pieterzoon. He seemed to have some authority over the other Dutch children and yet there was no suggestion that he was accompanied by a parent. In fact, the only adult he seemed to answer too was Captain Te Water, yet he was not the Captain’s son. The only person he seemed to hold in high regard was Harry, and he would have followed him everywhere had he not been forbidden to do so.
Ferghal would have been surprised to learn that Pieterzoon was in fact the son of a frigate Captain currently based in Batavia who was also an officer of the Dutch East India Company, or VOC as it was better known in Holland. Harry also would have been surprised at this information, though Captain Blackwood knew this well enough and the reason for the boy’s apparent lack of adult companionship. His mother having died shortly after their arrival at the Cape, he had been entrusted to Captain Te Water to be delivered to his father.
“MISTER WENTWORTH’S COMPLIMENTS, SIR,” Harry announced as he stood just inside the Captain’s temporary quarters. “The entrance to Botany Bay is in sight, but he recommends that we stand on to Port Jackson, about another hour’s sailing with this wind.”
“My compliments to the master, I shall come on deck,” the Captain acknowledged. “Notify Mister Bell if you please.”
By the time Harry returned to the quarterdeck, the Captain was already in conference with the master. Harry resumed his previous task overseeing the preparation of the launches for hoisting out even as Mister Bell joined the Captain.
“Here, Heron, what’s afoot?” Eamon Barclay demanded. “Botany Bay is abeam; what is the Captain intending? You’re always in his confidence.” He gave a derisive snort accompanied by his characteristic smirk.
“Sadly you are mistaken this time, Mister Barclay,” Harry replied quietly, annoyed at the insinuation, but wary of some trap. “All I know is that the master has suggested we continue to Port Jackson. It is but an hour’s sail further.”
“What? Are you not privy then to the Captain’s thoughts?” Barclay laughed, and Midshipman Peterson, as ever in attendance, sniggered. “Well, well, we shall soon be rid of these convict scum. Should have let them sink with that rat infested transport.” He noticed a seamen watching him; it was obvious the man had heard the exchange. “What are you staring at, scum?”
“Nought, sir.” The man averted his eyes and shrank back into his companions around the launch.
“Then get on with your work, Hughes,” Harry snapped. “And the rest of you s, no slacking there.” To Barclay he said, “Then we should be even more short-handed. Surely you know the Captain has pressed a number of those convicted of minor offences?”
“Gaol bait, the lot of them. Scum.” Barclay spat on the ground and stalked back to his own group.
“Hughes, Smith, get on with your duties,” Harry said sharply. “Your work is here, not at the foremast. Pay attention now.”
The man named Hughes shot Harry a grateful look and busied himself with the task of casting off the lashings on the boat. The man next to him muttered, “Don’t take the middie as soft; he ain’t, but he’ll give you fairness, not like the other.”
“I ain’t taking him for a fool neither. He’s plenty of pluck all right. But that other one, he’ll meet an accident if’n he ain’t careful.” Hughes considered Harry a moment. “Ain’t Mister Her’n the one persuaded the Lieutenant arter t’ corsair fight t’ take some volunteers from our hell ship?”
“That he be. Aks young Cormac if’n you’ve a mind. Grew up in the same part o’ Ireland they did, an’ the mid di’n’t hesitate.”
The sun was low in the west, illuminating a golden path to the great natural harbour of Port Jackson as the Spartan turned her bows toward the gap in the low cliffs flanking the entrance. The two remaining transports and the laden trader followed, shaping their courses for the opening and the harbour beyond.
To the first Lieutenant Captain Blackwood said, “The settlement was moved to this harbour from Botany Bay some years ago. There is no fresh water here, but this harbour has better shelter and good soil. Put a good man in the chains as soon as we pass the entrance. Mister Wentworth’s chart says there is foul ground to the south flanking the main channel and several islets between the settlement and us. I do not wish to be stranded in this entrance.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Thomas Bell responded. “This breeze should hold well into the harbour, but if the master’s chart is true, the channel runs southerly and then westerly, which may be difficult with the wind in this quarter. It may be advisable for us to lay to in the bay just inside the entrance and work our way in with the tide in the morning unless we can find a local pilot to guide us in.”
“There is sense in what you say, Thomas
. Very well, make it so. Signal the transports to that effect and make ready my gig to take me to the governor once we are anchored.”
Before the signal could be hoisted, however, a local lugger appeared and made straight for them signalling that it carried a pilot. With his guidance, the passage through the Heads was accomplished without mishap.
The vista that opened before them was truly picturesque, though the little cluster of buildings seven miles inside the harbour hardly seemed to dignify the place. Skirting several islets, the Spartan finally dropped her great anchor in a small bay near the town and in the lee of a larger island apparently used as a prison. The other ships continued further up the harbour, vanishing into another larger bay beyond the town.
“Phew, this heat is stifling,” Kit Tanner commented as he and Harry watched a party rigging the awnings above the decks under the direction of the second Lieutenant.
“It is.” Harry tugged at his neck cloth. “And I think it will show us little relief now we are sheltered from the sea breezes.”
“Heron.” Midshipman Barclay’s grating tone interrupted them. “The parson wants you. Be quick about it.”
“Thank you, Eamon.” Harry knew that his courtesy irritated Barclay, but it was his only way of paying back some of the abuse he suffered every time Barclay had an opportunity. “Where shall I find him?”
“Where d’ you think?” Barclay snapped, his scowling scarlet face betraying his discomfort in the heat and his irritation at Harry’s response. “In the schoolroom, of course.”
“Of course,” Harry replied with a smile. “How stupid of me not to realise. Thank you.”
Barclay’s face showed that Harry was skating on thin ice and in danger of provoking him into retaliation. Harry made his way below without further comment or hesitation, aware that his enemy was following, though Eamon descended to the gunroom.
Ferghal entered the gunroom to find himself witness to a confrontation. Pieterzoon was in an obstinate mood and clearly upset.
“Ik zal nie!” the boy declared emphatically. “Ik zal nie hier ter lande kommen! Ik blijwen aanbord dieze schip!”
The officer to whom this was addressed responded in Dutch, and a rather heated discussion ensued. Pieterzoon’s protests seemed to prevail, though, from what Ferghal could understand. The boy had won a brief reprieve, and therefore would not be sent ashore immediately.
The officer who had relented prepared to retire with an expression of annoyance on his face.
Midshipman Barclay, his timing as unfortunate as ever, chose that moment to clatter down the companionway. Catching sight of the Dutch boys he said, “What are these Dutch pests still doing here? Get their dunnage cleared and on deck, O’Connor. There’s no need for them to clutter the gunroom any longer.”
Pieterzoon’s face, still flushed and angry from his confrontation with the officer, darkened. “Uns blijwen hier,” he said to Barclay. “You is nie offisier, Mijn Heer. Oek niet een vriend!”
Barclay’s face flushed, and for a moment, it looked as if he would lash out at the small Dutch boy, but a new voice broke the tension.
“Mister Barclay.” The quiet voice of the fourth Lieutenant checked the angry midshipman. “You should consider your next act carefully.”
“Sir!” Barclay protested. “The boy is intolerably rude and disrespectful. They are to be sent ashore, are they not?”
Ferghal took advantage of the distraction to herd the boys away from what he felt sure would be a difficult scene. He shushed Pieterzoon as he pushed them up the companionway. “Have a care, Master Pieter! Things can get difficult otherwise.” To his relief Harry was nearby, and Ferghal was able to hand the boys over and give a quick explanation of what had occurred.
With his charges dispersed, Ferghal returned to the gunroom and began tidying the Dutch boys’ few possessions in readiness for obeying Mister Barclay’s order. The Lieutenant saw this and demanded, “What are you about, O’Connor?”
“Sir, I was instructed to gather their dunnage and take it on deck, sir.”
“Well don’t. Leave it here. It seems they will remain with us a little longer.” He turned back to Midshipman Barclay. “There is no suitable accommodation ashore at present, so the Captain has decided our guests will remain aboard until there is.” He frowned. “I suggest you have a care with the views you express, Mister Barclay. It does the ship no credit, especially when you are overheard by their officers.”
Ferghal had barely returned to his mess when he was summoned once more and found himself part of the boat crew detailed to ferry ashore the male convicts remaining in the hold.
“Ah, Mister Heron,” said the Reverend Mister Bentley in warm greeting. “I am leaving the ship temporarily to take advantage of an opportunity to study the native fauna and to work among the convicts. I hope to be able to provide some education for the children as well. Captain Blackwood has most kindly consented to your assisting me in having my possessions conveyed to my new abode ashore.”
Surprised, Harry nodded in eager compliance. “Certainly, Mister Bentley, sir. Shall I summon some hands to carry your chest to a boat?”
“In due time, young man, in due time. I have a favour to ask first.” The clergyman hesitated. “I was wondering if you would be so kind as to make sketches of any specimens I find. This place has all manner of strange new creatures and birds, which I will need to have illustrated for my journals.”
Harry was flattered. ““Of course, sir; how would you wish me to do these, and from what sort of specimen?”
“Bless you, my boy. I shall have to consider that carefully. The Captain will not permit your attending me ashore for too long, so perhaps some may have to be those I have shot or trapped. Will that present a problem?”
“It is better if I can observe them living, sir, but if they are stuffed or fresh killed, it should not be too difficult.”
“Bless you, Harry.” The parson smiled. “Your work on the birds so far has been remarkable, and this place has species unknown to Europe until recently, in birds and animals. Your assistance in illustrating them will be invaluable.”
Harry departed some minutes later to find some hands to move the parson’s small chest of belongings ashore. He was intrigued by the request, and wondered what he might find himself engaged in drawing in the coming weeks.
CASTING OFF THE BOW PAINTER, FERGHAL RECOVERED the trailing end quickly. Coiling the line down, he stowed it carefully so that it would be ready for use when the barge arrived at its destination. He settled into a comfortable position on the bow thwart and looked on as the bullocks eased their muskets and watched their charges, the huddled women convicts filling the spaces between the rowers. Several children interspersed them, and each clutched a small bundle of meagre possessions.
Since their rescue from the sinking Maid of Selsey, the women had been accommodated in the space usually used for the tending of the sick and injured on the ship, right at the fore end of the upper gun deck beneath the fo’c’s’le. This had meant that any trip to the heads to relieve oneself had required passing through the temporary prison.
“All right for some,” muttered the nearest Marine to his companion, indicating a long house fronted by a veranda stood atop a promontory. A pair of elegantly dressed ladies strolled the immaculate lawn attended by several officers in the uniform of the loathed New South Wales Corps. Known as the Rum Corps due to their control of all supplies of liquor, these officers and their men enriched themselves at the expense of the convicts they supposedly guarded. Several other members of their party lounged in the shade of the veranda while raggedly dressed men toiled on what appeared to be a kitchen garden neatly planted near the water.
Lieutenant Rae acknowledged the salute of one of the distant officers by raising his hat, after which he said something quietly to the coxswain. The tiller was adjusted, and the boat turned into the main harbour. The small fort sitting atop the islet in the centre of the wide waterway passe
d abeam, and the boat continued inland following the wide sweep of the river.
Progress was steady as the laden boat made its way past the fledgling township, across the deep inlet, and beyond several small islands until it reached a point at which they again turned southward and entered a wide bay at whose head stood a ragged straggle of tents surrounded by a rough fence.
“Bow.” The coxswain’s growl drew Ferghal’s attention. “Stand by to fend off.”
“Aye, aye, Swain.” Ferghal couldn’t see a jetty, though there appeared to be a shallow beach of mud and rocks. A flock of cormorants moved reluctantly aside as the boat neared, and then, with a rush, the beach, now revealed as mud and shingle, was beneath them. The oars were raised to the vertical and swiftly stowed even as the stem slid gently on the mud bottom. Ferghal leapt overside and held on to the boat, the water reaching his knees, and together with the oarsmen, who had now joined him in the water, pulled the boat onto the beach.
“Enough, lads,” Lieutenant Rae called from aft. “Steady her while our cargo disembarks.” To the convicts he said, “Pass the children out first, then follow over the bow. Quickly now, we must return for the rest of your people. Rowson, Matthews, lend a hand there.”
The Royal Marines were already out of the boat and standing ready, their muskets checked and primed under the snarled commands of their corporal as the children gathered, a little fearfully, at the water’s edge. The women followed, their faces lined with resignation, defiance and trepidation as they waded ashore holding their ragged skirts discreetly aloft.
From the rude camp, a group of untidy guards approached. Their leader, wearing a sergeant’s stripes, saluted casually as Lieutenant Rae stepped forward. “Brought us another load o’ doxies then,” snarled the sergeant. “A likely looking lot,” he added, pawing one of the younger women.
Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey Page 23