by Diana Menefy
Everyone was on deck enjoying the sun, even Mrs Morley, although I thought she looked ill. Her skin had a strange tinge, but she laughed and flirted as though there was nothing wrong, so I decided she must be fine. An albatross glided over the stern, its wings extended wide, then it soared up over the mast and away. I had never seen one so close; even if I stretched my arms out, I thought its wings would have been wider.
On the afternoon of 10 March, for the first time in weeks I was free to go to the great cabin. Mr Berry had a chart spread out on the table and a book open in front of him. He wasn’t reading, though, and looked up as I entered.
‘Well, Thomas. We survived the storm and the ice.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘She’s a sturdy ship. Needs a bit of work, but she’ll see us right.’
I wasn’t sure what to say, but as he was in a talkative mood I decided to make the most of it.
‘Can I ask a question, sir?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Why did Captain Thompson treat George like that?’
Mr Berry shifted in his chair and squared his shoulders before replying. ‘Sometimes it’s hard for captains to keep discipline on their ships. Thompson was fresh out from England and had certain standards he needed to maintain. Not everyone gets on well with all sorts of people. You know that.’
‘Yes, but George got on well with Captain Wilkinson.’
‘Wilkinson’s been around New Zealand quite a bit and knows the native customs and behaviour. He’s probably a tolerant man. In my dealings with George I found him arrogant, and he was far too familiar at times.’
‘He didn’t deserve to be flogged. He was sick. If Captain Thompson hadn’t flogged him, they’d all be alive now.’
Mr Berry snapped his book shut.
‘Look, Thomas,’ he said, ‘you don’t know that. God knows I don’t agree with flogging, but it is the standard punishment on most ships. Mistakes can be made. It’s easy to blame Thompson now, but the natives are savages, cannibals. What they did was barbaric. That you and Mrs Morley and the little girls survived is miraculous. Just you thank God. Now, I think it’s time you got to work.’
Maybe it wouldn’t have made any difference, I thought as I collected the paper and ink from the drawer, but I couldn’t help wishing Captain Thompson hadn’t ordered George to be flogged, or tied him to the capstan that day.
I shouldn’t have been feeling sorry for myself. At least I’d survived.
I started to write.
Early December 1809, on the hill above the
village at Wangaroa, on my first day ashore
No one came near us for the rest of that day. I was starving and thirsty, but too frightened to leave the hut. It was made of rushes worked in with leaves that looked like they were off a palm tree. I pulled at the strands — they seemed to be woven together.
‘It keeps the wind and rain out,’ Mrs Morley said, when she noticed my interest, ‘but that’s about all.’
The only opening was the hole I’d crawled through, and the light was dim even with the sun shining outside. I leant against the wall and closed my eyes. Dead bodies haunted me from the darkness, and the smell of the blood rose in my gorge. I snapped my eyes open and focused on the dust particles dancing on the light coming through the opening.
It was almost dark when we heard natives coming up the track. Mrs Morley reached out her hand and I grasped it.
‘It might be the woman with food, but she came by herself the last two nights,’ Mrs Morley said.
We stared at each other, and I think she was feeling the same fear. What if George didn’t keep his word? I could still hear the angry shouts of the other natives as they’d called out to him on the way up here. Maybe they had over-ruled him and we were about to be killed?
Then a native woman appeared at the opening with a basket of food and a gourd of water. She didn’t speak — just put them down and left, the others with her. I never realized I’d been biting my lip until I tasted the blood.
Mrs Morley let go of my hand and soothed Ann.
‘Bring it over here, please, Tom,’ she said.
I could feel the warmth of the food through the basket. It looked and smelt normal, but I couldn’t help remembering the bones by the pit. Nothing on this earth would make me eat part of another human being. I would rather starve to death. I handed the basket to Mrs Morley.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Fish, I think. It’s been fish the last two nights.’ She pulled a piece off with her fingers and popped it in her mouth. ‘Yes, fish. It’s safe to eat.’
The rest of the food tasted like potato, only sweet. The small pieces were covered in skin. The food was warm and, having eaten nothing for days, I gulped it down.
I slept like the dead that night, lying on the mat with Mrs Morley and Ann.
She was feeding Ann when I woke the next morning. I stared at her breast, then turned away, my cheeks burning. She laughed and told me to pretend she was my big sister. I got up and went to the opening, and lay on my stomach, looking out.
The water was a deep blue and still. Hills, covered with lush shrubs and the crowns of huge trees, peaked towards the sky. Tufts of white cloud hung high as if waiting for a breeze to move them on. Once I’d have thought it a paradise, but the murder of my friends, particularly Will, had left me numb and unmoved by the beauty.
The ground in front of me was matted with a rough sort of grass and patches of tall ferns. Further back, there were huge outcrops of sheer rock jutting from the woods. I was about to go back to the mat when several canoes came into sight, and then the Boyd. It took me a moment to realize they were towing her up the harbour. I watched as they pulled her closer until she grounded in shallow water close to an island.
Then the natives went on board and started unloading her. I could see splashes as they tossed some things over the side, but the line of canoes going between shore and ship was constant. I crawled outside and leant against the side of the hut.
‘What’s happening?’ Mrs Morley asked.
‘They’ve shifted the Boyd up the harbour. She’s just down below us. Looks like they’re plundering her.’
‘I wonder if they’ll bring my dresses ashore, and a change of clothes for Ann?’
I stared back through the opening, but her expression was hidden by the poor light. I couldn’t believe she didn’t realize the danger we were in. To be thinking of dresses …
I moved away from the hut and lay on the grass, staring up at the sky. It was clear blue with floating wisps of white cloud, so different from home. I had wanted to see the world. I had imagined myself going back with stories of my adventures. Never in my wildest dreams had I thought that my friends would be killed; that I’d be held captive by savages who’d devoured the flesh of sailors I’d known. Tears trickled out from the corner of my eyes and into my hair. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to be eaten.
I smeared the wet from my eyes with the backs of my hands and rolled over to look down at the scene below. What was happening on the Boyd? It sounded as though there was a party going on. Some of the natives were firing muskets, and occasionally I could hear shouts and laughter on the wind. Then there was this huge flash of flame, and a dull explosion echoed around the harbour.
Smoke started spiralling up from the deck through the spars and what was left of the canvas. I could see natives jumping off the side and hear shouting. Several canoes turned back towards the ship. As I watched the flames spread, I knew that would be the end of the Boyd. It was a strange feeling: sadness because she was my first ship, jubilation that the natives wouldn’t be able to use her, excitement because I’d never seen a ship burn before.
The noise brought Mrs Morley outside. We sat and watched as the flames spread the length of the ship. There was another huge burst of orange light, and I thought of the casks of powder stored in the hold. The fire roared up and consumed the timbers, black smoke billowing above it.
‘What was in th
e hold?’ Mrs Morley asked.
‘Powder, coal, whale oil and sealskins. They’ll all burn well.’
I saw her eyes widen and knew she shared my thoughts.
The canoes pulled for the beach. It looked like all the natives from the village had assembled on the shore. Some waded out to the canoes. We could see them lifting out what appeared to be bodies. They laid them on the ground and stood around gesturing and talking for a bit, and then everyone started to wail and moan. Mrs Morley and I crept back into the hut. We could still see the smoke rising from the fire through the opening.
That night no one came to deliver food, and we had nothing to eat. My sleep was broken with nightmares of Will reaching out for me, his hands spurting blood from missing fingers, his dead lips calling my name.
We stayed in the hut for days, only going outside to relieve ourselves. The fire smouldered most of that time, and when the wind blew our way the acrid smell of the smoke filled the hut. Fresh food and water was placed by the opening each evening, but no one spoke to us. It was obvious someone important had died, probably several people.
‘I hope it’s not George,’ I said.
‘It’s not George or we’d be dead by now,’ Mrs Morley said. ‘No one else cares about us, do they, pet?’ She jiggled Ann against her shoulder. ‘Do you mind if I use some of our drinking water to wash her? She’s getting sore.’
‘Of course not.’ I could see that Ann’s bottom was red. Mrs Morley had ripped the base of her nightgown into small squares to wrap around Ann, but most of them were piled up in the corner, soiled.
I liked holding Ann, even though she was starting to smell funny. She reminded me of Lizzie when she was a baby. I wondered if I’d ever see Lizzie again, and felt the tears build up behind my eyes.
We all smelt bad. The thought of the water close by was tempting, but neither of us had enough courage to leave the safety of the hut and walk down to the river. Instead, we talked.
I told her about life in Romford, about Pete, Joanna, Sal and Lizzie, my younger brother and sisters. As I talked, the realization that I’d probably never see them again hit me and my sadness drifted into silence. Mrs Morley waited until I could continue. I told her about making friends with Will, and the drawings he did for me. I was glad most of them went with the mail from Sydney. The one of George was still in my sea chest — or used to be. I wouldn’t want it now. If it hadn’t been burnt, I’d shred it and stamp the pieces into the dirt.
In turn, Mrs Morley told me about working in the shop she and her husband owned — a ship’s chandlery. She said she’d enjoyed chatting with the men — they’d called her ‘Nancy’. She had sold her half of the business to her husband and decided to go back home, taking her youngest daughter with her. She’d finished her time some years ago and was a free woman.
I didn’t like to ask her what she’d done to be sent out as a convict in the first place, but she told me anyway: she’d been sentenced to seven years for stealing three shirts, a tablecloth and other goods from one Thomas Coup.
Seven years for that. For a moment I wondered what two oranges would be worth, then pushed the thought to the back of my mind.
She told me how she survived on the trip out with the other women convicts. There were times when my cheeks were on fire — that made her laugh, and she told me I was such an innocent.
CHAPTER TWELVE
March 1810, on the City of Edinburgh —
off the coast of Tierra del Fuego
We sailed all afternoon on 12 March, trying to find some place to anchor and make permanent repairs. The coastline was riddled with islands and rocks; and the sea between, although calm, seemed bottomless. Kee, being the biggest and oldest apprentice, was first to swing the lead to take soundings. Dunc and I fed the rope out and coiled it back up for the next throw. The rope had knots tied in it at every fathom length, and, as it was reeled back in the knots were counted and we had to shout out the depth. Most of the time the weight never even touched the bottom.
By the end of the day, we were all soaked and my voice was a pathetic croak. Just as it was getting dark, we found a rocky ridge at thirty fathoms and let go the anchor. An island of barren rock close by provided a shelter for the night. I was wet and cold, and the hot soup was a welcome meal. In the morning I’d killed the last of the hens for Doc. There had been four dozen aboard when the City of Edinburgh sailed from New Zealand. As each one stopped laying, it ended up in the pot, and the watery broth — the sailors’ share — was a welcome change from salt beef. We were all hoping there’d be some game to shoot once we got to shore.
The wind was blowing so strongly the next day that it was impossible to weigh anchor. Captain Patterson asked for volunteers to man the launch to continue the search for a bay with deep water close to steep rock. Both Dunc and I stepped forward.
We rowed for hours, but each bay seemed rockier than the one before. By late afternoon the wind was gusting, the waves were starting to spill into the boat, and I had huge blisters on my hands. We were too far from the ship to make it back safely, and Mr Cowper steered us towards a rocky ledge, thick with kelp, that he reckoned would be sheltered from the worst of the wind.
The rocks were sharp and grazed my skin as I helped haul the launch up above the tide mark and lean it sideways against the cliff face.
‘Right, lads, we could be here for a while,’ Mr Cowper said. ‘Scramble around those rocks and get as much dried kelp as you can carry.’
Dunc hated the tiny, black jumping bugs that were hidden under the kelp, but having slept on a bed of bracken riddled with fleas from the dogs I wasn’t concerned. Anything was better than the cutting edge of the rocks. Gathering my third armful I disturbed a dead fish. The stink was overpowering. I threw the kelp back down but the stench clung to my hands.
I made my way down to the rock pools close to where we hauled the boat up and rubbed my hands in the water. The wind whipped a shower of salt spray over me. I sprang back, soaked to the skin, stumbled over a rock and landed hard on my backside. For a second I blinked with the pain, then burst out laughing.
‘Mad, that’s what you are,’ Dunc said from behind.
That made me laugh even harder. Here I was stranded on a rocky coast in the middle of an unknown group of islands in Tierra del Fuego. My ship had lost its mast and was without a proper rudder.
I was wet through, the scratches on my legs stung, and my tailbone ached. For the first time in weeks I felt truly alive.
We were stuck there for two days. But it wasn’t like being in the hold of the Boyd. There were five of us, and we passed the time telling tales, talking about our families and where we came from. I told them about watching the Boyd burn. No one asked about what had happened to the rest of the crew, and I was grateful for that.
At night we sheltered under the up-turned boat, and during the day we ate what mussels we could get off the rocks at low tide, smashing their shells open against the rocks and with our knives. One of the sailors used a mussel as bait to hook a fish on the boat’s line, but there was no wood for a fire and I didn’t fancy eating raw fish. Mussels were different. On the third afternoon the weather eased enough for us to get back to the ship.
I’d just finished a welcome bowl of rice and peas and was chewing on a piece of bread when I heard someone yell ‘The ship’s adrift!’
The sharp rocks below had cut the anchor cable. For some days we drifted with tide and current. Captain Patterson stayed on deck most of the time. Mr Russell snapped out orders, ensuring that the little sail we had was used to catch any breeze that might keep us from the rocks. We could see the swells smashing into foam on them, and now and again the wind sighed and moaned in the rigging. The mood on board was grim, and once again our chances of surviving seemed slim.
But at length the weather improved. The wind changed direction and took us back to where we’d anchored, and this time we were able to fasten the ship to the rocks. It was still exposed, but was safer than drifting.
The weather continued to improve, and several boats were lowered to search for a safe haven. I stayed on board, and after my watch sat in the great cabin and continued my story.
Early December 1809, on the hill
above the village at Wangaroa
One afternoon George came to the hut. He told us four warriors had been killed and several others injured when the Boyd exploded — and that one of the dead had been George’s father. We sat outside on the grass and talked. It was awkward at first. I didn’t know what to say.
‘What happened?’ Mrs Morley asked.
‘Big boom. My father try flint in musket. Spark on powder cask next him.’
‘I’m sorry, George,’ she said.
‘Ship bad luck. Now tapu.’
And then I blurted out the question that had been in my mind for days: ‘Why, George? Why did you kill the passengers? They didn’t hurt you.’
George looked down, silent. His brows were drawn in a frown, his eyes underlined with dark shadows. I bit my lip and cursed myself for asking. He was silent for so long that fear rose in my throat and I struggled to breathe. Then he spoke.
‘While I away, ship came. My people give fresh water, food, made friends. Captain put evil spirit in water. Stole away at night. Curse on land. Curse made people sick. Many, many died. Chief Kaitoke died. We need get utu. Sacred duty. Tribe wait for another ship.’
I figured utu must be revenge. But why take it out on another ship? Did that mean we’d have been massacred even if George hadn’t been lashed? But I didn’t dare ask George that.
George went on: ‘Our ship comes. My father, brothers see lash marks on back. They angry. Captain Thompson demand spars. Good. Makes easier. Officers not on ship. We get utu.’