by Diana Menefy
Captain Thompson walked around the ship with his hands clasped behind his back. He wasn’t much taller than me, but he had black, shaggy eyebrows set in a frown and his eyes suggested that he was fully aware of every misdemeanour we’d committed. He never said a word to us. The other hands said we were dead lucky. Words with Captain Thompson usually ended in a flogging.
I was curious the first time we were ordered on deck to witness this, but when the blood started to run down the sailor’s back and a speck flew off the end of the cat-o’-nine-tails and landed on my cheek my stomach flipped. Seeing the damage inflicted with just ten strokes strengthened my resolve to avoid a flogging at all costs. I was determined not to fall foul of Captain.
The days passed, each much the same as the previous one. We spent a lot of time holystoning the deck. Most of the others stepped around the cleaned bits, some even telling us to keep up the good work, but Bo’sun deliberately spilled grease on the deck where I’d finished scrubbing. Then told me I’d missed a bit and to do a proper job. My eyes focused on his stomach as it looped over the top of his trousers, and I said ‘Yes, sir’, taking care to keep my voice even, and worked back wishing I could smack my fist into his face. I stayed out of his way as much as possible.
The soldiers paraded on deck, stamping their feet a lot, and took turns inspecting the convicts in the hold. Most of the time the soldiers sat around cleaning their muskets, polishing their buttons and the badges on their hats — they called the hats ‘shakos’. I found that out from Mac, the soldier who’d told us to go and boil our heads. His real name was Drust Maclachlin. He was not as fierce as he had sounded then. He told me the uniforms were a ‘sair fecht’, and when I pressed him to explain he said that when the new battalion was formed at the beginning of the year they’d lost their Highland status and were no longer allowed to wear their kilts or sporrans. And now, instead of being sent to fight in India or against the French, they were going to Australia — a penal colony. His voice was thick with disgust and disappointment.
Captain Cameron had said the soldiers were going to prepare for the arrival of the new Australian Governor, Lieutenant Colonel Lachlan Macquarie, but Mac didn’t see that. As far as he was concerned it was exile, and he was hardly better off than the scum in the hold.
CHAPTER THREE
April 1809, on the Boyd — somewhere off the coast of North Africa
By now Will and I were climbing the ratlins — that’s what the rope ladders going up the masts are called, and the horizontal bits of wood that the sails are tied to are the yards. Each day we learnt more about the ship. I now knew the difference between the shrouds and stays, bowlines and buntlines, but we didn’t have lessons — we were expected to pick it up as we worked.
The first time I climbed the mast I hesitated at the bottom looking up — the mast seemed to stretch forever into the sky.
‘Lively now! Blow the cobwebs out of your brains,’ Mr Strunk ordered. I grabbed at the ratlin and hauled myself up the first few rungs. Then my boots slipped on the wet rope and I had to cling, knuckles white, to the lines above me as the ship swayed.
‘Lively now! Up to the top.’
I gritted my teeth, leant hard into the rigging and started climbing again.
Hand by hand.
Foot by foot.
Until I was almost at the top. And then I had to climb out backwards to get over the futtock shrouds. I hesitated — the deck was a long way down and my fingers cramped claws.
‘Get your buttocks over the futtocks!’ he yelled up at me.
It was the scariest thing I’d ever tried. Sweat ran down my face, salty on my lips, and my legs screamed, but at last I stood on the round platform. When I dared to look down, Mr Strunk had gone. With my fingers gripped white around one of the mizzen topmast shrouds, I leant forward and laughed and yelled to the wind, ‘I’m the king of the castle, get down you dirty rascal!’ then glanced quickly down to make sure no one had heard me. Later that night Will and I laughed ourselves silly as we repeated ‘Get your buttocks over the futtocks’.
With the warmer water came porpoises — dashing in and out of the sea in front of the ship. I’d never seen them before and they made me laugh. Will sketched them. I wished I could draw like him. A few quick strokes with the pencil and there they were, leaping off the paper, water splashing. He signed one for me to send home to Ma with my letters. Sometimes I missed her so much. Will told me it was her cooking I missed. He was right about that. I’d never moan about having mashed spuds and stewed meat ever again. I’d have given anything right at that moment for a plate of Ma’s stewed meat. The food on the Boyd was rotten. I don’t think Doc knew how to cook properly; everything tasted mushy. I only ate it because I was so hungry.
On 16 April I saw rough, black shapes in the distance. Mr Pritchard said it was the Cape Verde Islands and asked me if I knew where they were. I already knew we would be sailing off the African coast, so I took a guess at that. He grinned approvingly, and the chip on his tooth stood out. Soon we would be crossing the equator. John had warned us that everyone crossing the equator for the first time had to be initiated. He refused to say anything else. And he wouldn’t tell us what had happened to him. I had this uneasy feeling that it wasn’t going to be fun.
There were six of us. Mr Strunk told us to go below and stay there until we were called. And then we had to come up one at a time, by ourselves. As we headed for the companionway I realized that most of the crew were standing around grinning. Bo’sun had this evil look in his eyes. He was the one person I truly loathed.
I was the second-to-last to be called. When I got up on deck Will was standing with the others, his hair wet and his face a pasty white. I tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look at me. And then I was grabbed from behind, my arms pulled back, hands tied firm, and spun in circles as the rest of the rope tightened on my waist. Many hands lifted me, and just as I realized what was happening they threw me over the side. I hit the water hard, mouth open, shouting. It filled with salt water. I swallowed without thinking, and tried to breathe but the water filled my nostrils. My chest tightened with pain. Then I felt the rope jerk and I was on my way up again.
Swinging in the air, I gasped, blinked to clear my eyes, and had just noticed that the rope was attached to the main yard when I was dropped again. This time I managed to take a breath before I went under, and shut my mouth, slowly letting the air out through my nose while I was below the surface. My lungs felt as if they were going to burst by the time I got a chance to catch another breath. And then it was over. I was hauled up, lowered onto the deck and unbound. I coughed and spluttered, sucking air deep into my lungs, my head spinning. I started to get to my feet, but rough hands shoved me down on all fours. It was Bo’sun. I recognized the smell of him before he spoke, telling me to crawl to where King Neptune was waiting for me to kiss his ring.
Every movement forward was accompanied by numerous blows, the odd one making me flinch. I knew they came from Bo’sun. My hair was smothered with molasses and a bucket of slops poured over my back. As the smell hit me I dry-retched. Knowing the satisfaction I’d give Bo’sun if I did was the only thing that stopped me from spewing.
I made it to where King Neptune was seated. He was draped in dried seaweed, his face hidden by a mask and a huge wig of shambolic locks. When he held his hand out for me to kiss I saw the ring was covered with black grease and for a moment I hesitated, but I could feel them waiting and I kissed that filthy ring. I was pulled to my feet.
The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.
King Neptune was intoning the words, but I recognized Mr Strunk’s voice.
‘Thomas Davidson, today you have joined the seafaring brotherhood. I announce to all concerned that you are conferred with the freedom of the seas and shall from now on be treated with the respect due to One of Us. You may rise and take three p
aces back.’
This time I saw what was going to happen and shut my mouth and eyes. Buckets of water were poured over my head and tossed at my body.
‘Right, lads — bring the last one up!’ King Neptune shouted.
I shuffled over to where Will was standing.
‘You, too?’ I asked.
He nodded. I could see the molasses in his hair, and despite being washed down with buckets of water I still felt dirty.
I stood there next to Will and watched while they dunked the last victim.
‘C’mon, lads — join in!’ King Neptune called above the heads of the others as they harried the crawling sailor towards the throne.
I moved forward, my arms limp at my sides. No one could force me to hit him.
CHAPTER FOUR
May 1809 — somewhere off the coast of southern Africa
The Boyd lost the northeast trades and got caught in the doldrums, and for several days we were constantly hauling on the ropes, trimming yards and sails night and day until we picked up the southwest winds. From there on, it was smooth sailing all the way to South Africa.
We dropped anchor off Cape Town on 25 May. Coming in was the strangest sight: there was this huge mountain that looked as if a knife had sliced the top off. It towered over the town, and had steep cliffs on either side. Mr Pritchard said it was called Table Mountain. I thought that was a strange name and wondered if the natives thought their gods ate off it.
John, Will and I weren’t allowed to go ashore when the others went. Mr Strunk told us that apprentices were meant to be safe from the press gangs, but he wasn’t taking any chances since there were two navy ships in port. Being experienced seamen, the others knew to keep an eye out for trouble; besides, Captain Thompson wasn’t responsible for them.
Will and I were peeved, but John just shrugged: he was used to this. When the others got back they said we hadn’t missed much — the town was hot and dusty — but they’d obviously enjoyed themselves. I could smell drink on their breath.
The next day I helped pull the sails up from the locker and spread them out to dry over the decks. It was autumn here, but the sun was hot and sweat dripped from me. I could hear the convicts calling out, begging to be allowed out of the hold. The soldiers wouldn’t budge, though; too dangerous, they said. I didn’t believe them. How could the convicts be a threat, bound in chains the way they were?
Most of the time I managed to put them out of my mind, but every now and then I’d wonder if they were really a threat to us. John said that most of the trouble was caused by the famine — people stole food — while others were there because they were known troublemakers who’d led the fight against paying exorbitant rents and tithes to the English landlords. It made me feel uncomfortable. John said it was the way things were and we couldn’t do anything about it other than put up with the smell coming from the hold.
It was disgusting; after weeks at sea even the charcoal and sulphur burners couldn’t clear the foul air. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be shut down there. I was glad it was the soldiers who had to look after them, not us. The stink in the fo’c’sle was bad enough.
The best part of being in port was having fresh vittles, especially the fruit and vegetables, and the days when I helped man the oars as we pulled boats into the mouth of a nearby stream to fill the casks with fresh water. There was green cover right to the edge of the stream, but the trees weren’t like those at home. These were more like heathers and shrubs with tough, skinny leaves. There were tall red and white flowers and grass-like plants with sprays of blue on the forest floor. I wished Ma could have seen them. If Will had been with me I’d have asked him to draw them for her. Mr Strunk said I should see it in summer when all the flowers were out — big red and pink heads and masses of yellows. When the casks were full, we all splashed ourselves with water. It tasted earthy — good — but it was cold.
Three days before we left they brought a beast alongside. It was in a pen on a raft, and they hoisted it on board using the longboat tackles. The day before we were due to sail, Will and I watched Doc slaughter it. He slammed the mallet down on the beast’s head, and the animal fell to the deck. He sliced through its throat with a skinning knife, and we stood and watched as the blood streamed out — masses of it. We laughed as Doc leapt back to stop it messing his boots. When the beast finally stopped kicking, Doc cut the skin, starting at the bottom of each leg and going up the middle of the belly. He peeled the skin back, then split the brisket.
He got us to hold the front legs while he tied them and then hooked the rope to the tackle. We took one side each. Will screwed his nose up — the legs were still warm, and he’d never been that close to a beast before. I’d seen many a steer killed on my uncle’s farm. We helped Doc hoist it up, and held onto a back leg each while he finished skinning it. Then he split open the belly and pulled the innards out. The smell was foul. We collected the offal in buckets and heaved it over the side. That night we had fresh boiled beef. It was tough, but there was lots of meat and it tasted great with lashings of onions. Afterwards there were raspberries, strawberries and apples. I had never tasted raspberries before — sort of sweet-tart with lots of juice that stained my fingers. I gorged on the raspberries. For once there was enough for all of us to eat our fill.
We sailed from Cape Town on 11 June and made good time with strong westerlies, although the weather was dull and icy cold. Waves broke over the decks, and our quarters were soaked from our wet clothes. The convicts had the worst of the freezing temperatures; five of them died. The soldiers tossed them overboard, still fettered in chains, with what seemed like scant ceremony. We sailed under the southern coast of Australia and north of Van Diemen’s Land into the Tasman Sea and up towards Port Jackson.
By mid-August the Boyd was close enough to see the land — high cliffs covered in woods. A small land bird perched on the rigging as we passed the entrance to Botany Bay. Then we were sailing through pods of sperm whales. I could watch them for hours, the water spraying from their blowholes, and their big triangular tails seeming to stand in the water when the huge beasts dived. Mr Strunk called the tails ‘flukes’. He said it’d be a great place for a fishery on the coast here.
I got Will to draw me a whale diving and sign it ‘To Pete’. Pete’s next to me in age. I wrote and told him about the whales. Will didn’t have a brother, just a big sister. He said she was always bossing him about. I had three younger sisters, but it was Lizzie I missed most — the way she wound her fat little baby arms around my neck.
As we approached the entrance of Port Jackson, a straight line of yellowish cliffs marked the way. It was Monday, 14 August, when we sailed up the harbour and let go the anchor in Sydney Cove. The water was deep blue, the sky clear and the sun blazing. They said it was winter here, but it felt more like our summer. On the shore were scattered wooden houses and larger buildings that looked like they might have been made of brick or stone. There were windmills in the background, and strange-looking trees. Huge rock faces hung over the water, sheer from the tops of the hills right down to the water’s edge. At the feet of some of them were outcrops that jutted into the water and were being used to load ships.
It wasn’t long before a gig pulled out from the wharf with two men on board. The port officials, or so Mr Strunk said. That was when our luck turned bad.
Since some of the convicts had died, even though it had been from the cold not sickness, no one was allowed off until we had a clean bill of health, not even Captain Thompson. He shouted at the officials and swore something wild, but it made no difference. Although they did bring fresh water, meat and vegetables out to the ship for us.
We sat there for ten days, with the sun burning and not enough wind to shift the foul smell from the hold. The soldiers had it worse in their scarlet jackets — their faces were red and sweating as they stood guard in the sun while the convicts exercised on deck.
Then at last the long, hot wait was over. Captain Thompson went ashore t
o dine with Governor Foveaux, and the next day the convicts were allowed to disembark. Mr Strunk said they were dangerous Irish bastards, political prisoners, but as they shuffled off the ship — some of them having to be carried — I felt sorry for them. I couldn’t imagine being kept in the hold for all that time: it had taken us one hundred and fifty-seven days to get here from Ireland.
The soldiers left, too, and the irons and other prison equipment were taken off the ship. Then the cleaning started. Everyone worked, but John, Will and I got the worst job: we were sent to the hold. Bilge water lapped the floor — a grey swill that was a mix of seawater, vomit, crap and the odd floating rat. The stink was unbelievable. We spent the next few days manning the pumps — sucking the swill out, then hosing it all down again — followed by weeks of scrubbing with creosote and swabbing with quick-lime to clean the air.
After we finished the hold we started scrubbing down the lower deck. It poured with rain for three days, and one afternoon hail-stones smashed onto the deck above. We scrambled up to watch, and for once Mr Strunk didn’t send us straight back to work. Even Mr Pritchard came out of the hold where he was supervising the storage of the cargo. The hail-stones were huge, and belted my hand when I tried to catch them.
It was the middle of October before work was finished and Mr Strunk was satisfied that the ship was ready for him to advertise for passengers in the Sydney paper. And then he let us apprentices ashore for half a day with Bo’sun, to help him carry some stores. Mr Strunk warned us that our behaviour ashore would reflect on Captain Thompson, who wasn’t a good man to upset.