For the Term of His Natural Life

by Marcus Andrew Hislop Clarke

  In the prison of the 'tween decks reigned a darkness pregnant withmurmurs. The sentry at the entrance to the hatchway was supposed to"prevent the prisoners from making a noise," but he put a very liberalinterpretation upon the clause, and so long as the prisoners refrainedfrom shouting, yelling, and fighting--eccentricities in which theysometimes indulged--he did not disturb them. This course of conduct wasdictated by prudence, no less than by convenience, for one sentry wasbut little over so many; and the convicts, if pressed too hard, wouldraise a sort of bestial boo-hoo, in which all voices were confounded,and which, while it made noise enough and to spare, utterly precludedindividual punishment. One could not flog a hundred and eighty men, andit was impossible to distinguish any particular offender. So, invirtue of this last appeal, convictism had established a tacit right toconverse in whispers, and to move about inside its oaken cage.

  To one coming in from the upper air, the place would have seemedin pitchy darkness, but the convict eye, accustomed to the sinistertwilight, was enabled to discern surrounding objects with tolerabledistinctness. The prison was about fifty feet long and fifty feet wide,and ran the full height of the 'tween decks, viz., about five feet teninches high. The barricade was loop-holed here and there, and the plankswere in some places wide enough to admit a musket barrel. On the aftside, next the soldiers' berths, was a trap door, like the stoke-hole ofa furnace. At first sight this appeared to be contrived for thehumane purpose of ventilation, but a second glance dispelled this weakconclusion. The opening was just large enough to admit the muzzle ofa small howitzer, secured on the deck below. In case of a mutiny, thesoldiers could sweep the prison from end to end with grape shot. Suchfresh air as there was, filtered through the loopholes, and came, insomewhat larger quantity, through a wind-sail passed into the prisonfrom the hatchway. But the wind-sail, being necessarily at one end onlyof the place, the air it brought was pretty well absorbed by the twentyor thirty lucky fellows near it, and the other hundred and fifty did notcome so well off. The scuttles were open, certainly, but as the row ofbunks had been built against them, the air they brought was the peculiarproperty of such men as occupied the berths into which they penetrated.These berths were twenty-eight in number, each containing six men. Theyran in a double tier round three sides of the prison, twenty at eachside, and eight affixed to that portion of the forward barricadeopposite the door. Each berth was presumed to be five feet six inchessquare, but the necessities of stowage had deprived them of six inches,and even under that pressure twelve men were compelled to sleep onthe deck. Pine did not exaggerate when he spoke of the custom ofovercrowding convict ships; and as he was entitled to half a guineafor every man he delivered alive at Hobart Town, he had some reason tocomplain.

  When Frere had come down, an hour before, the prisoners were all snuglybetween their blankets. They were not so now; though, at the first clinkof the bolts, they would be back again in their old positions, to allappearances sound asleep. As the eye became accustomed to the foetidduskiness of the prison, a strange picture presented itself. Groupsof men, in all imaginable attitudes, were lying, standing, sitting, orpacing up and down. It was the scene on the poop-deck over again; only,here being no fear of restraining keepers, the wild beasts were a littlemore free in their movements. It is impossible to convey, in words, anyidea of the hideous phantasmagoria of shifting limbs and faces whichmoved through the evil-smelling twilight of this terrible prison-house.Callot might have drawn it, Dante might have suggested it, but a minuteattempt to describe its horrors would but disgust. There are depths inhumanity which one cannot explore, as there are mephitic caverns intowhich one dare not penetrate.

  Old men, young men, and boys, stalwart burglars and highway robbers,slept side by side with wizened pickpockets or cunning-featuredarea-sneaks. The forger occupied the same berth with the body-snatcher.The man of education learned strange secrets of house-breakers' craft,and the vulgar ruffian of St. Giles took lessons of self-control fromthe keener intellect of the professional swindler. The fraudulent clerkand the flash "cracksman" interchanged experiences. The smuggler'sstories of lucky ventures and successful runs were capped by thefootpad's reminiscences of foggy nights and stolen watches. The poacher,grimly thinking of his sick wife and orphaned children, would start asthe night-house ruffian clapped him on the shoulder and bade him, with acurse, to take good heart and "be a man." The fast shopboy whose loveof fine company and high living had brought him to this pass, hadshaken off the first shame that was on him, and listened eagerly to thenarratives of successful vice that fell so glibly from the lips of hisolder companions. To be transported seemed no such uncommon fate. Theold fellows laughed, and wagged their grey heads with all the glee ofpast experience, and listening youth longed for the time when it mightdo likewise. Society was the common foe, and magistrates, gaolers, andparsons were the natural prey of all noteworthy mankind. Only fools werehonest, only cowards kissed the rod, and failed to meditate revenge onthat world of respectability which had wronged them. Each new-comer wasone more recruit to the ranks of ruffianism, and not a man penned inthat reeking den of infamy but became a sworn hater of law, order, and"free-men." What he might have been before mattered not. He was nowa prisoner, and--thrust into a suffocating barracoon, herded withthe foulest of mankind, with all imaginable depths of blasphemyand indecency sounded hourly in his sight and hearing--he lost hisself-respect, and became what his gaolers took him to be--a wild beastto be locked under bolts and bars, lest he should break out and tearthem.

  The conversation ran upon the sudden departure of the four. What couldthey want with them at that hour?

  "I tell you there's something up on deck," says one to the group nearesthim. "Don't you hear all that rumbling and rolling?"

  "What did they lower boats for? I heard the dip o' the oars."

  "Don't know, mate. P'r'aps a burial job," hazarded a short, stoutfellow, as a sort of happy suggestion.

  "One of those coves in the parlour!" said another; and a laugh followedthe speech.

  "No such luck. You won't hang your jib for them yet awhile. More likethe skipper agone fishin'."

  "The skipper don't go fishin', yer fool. What would he dofishin'?--special in the middle o' the night."

  "That 'ud be like old Dovery, eh?" says a fifth, alluding to an oldgrey-headed fellow, who--a returned convict--was again under sentencefor body-snatching.

  "Ay," put in a young man, who had the reputation of being the smartest"crow" (the "look-out" man of a burglars' gang) in London--"'fishers ofmen,' as the parson says."

  The snuffling imitation of a Methodist preacher was good, and there wasanother laugh.

  Just then a miserable little cockney pickpocket, feeling his way to thedoor, fell into the party.

  A volley of oaths and kicks received him.

  "I beg your pardon, gen'l'men," cries the miserable wretch, "but I wanth'air."

  "Go to the barber's and buy a wig, then!" says the "Crow", elated at thesuccess of his last sally.

  "Oh, sir, my back!"

  "Get up!" groaned someone in the darkness. "Oh, Lord, I'm smothering!Here, sentry!"

  "Vater!" cried the little cockney. "Give us a drop o' vater, for mercy'ssake. I haven't moist'ned my chaffer this blessed day."

  "Half a gallon a day, bo', and no more," says a sailor next him.

  "Yes, what have yer done with yer half-gallon, eh?" asked the Crowderisively. "Someone stole it," said the sufferer.

  "He's been an' blued it," squealed someone. "Been an' blued it to buya Sunday veskit with! Oh, ain't he a vicked young man?" And the speakerhid his head under the blankets, in humorous affectation of modesty.

  All this time the miserable little cockney--he was a tailor bytrade--had been grovelling under the feet of the Crow and hiscompanions.

  "Let me h'up, gents" he implored--"let me h'up. I feel as if I shoulddie--I do."

  "Let the gentleman up," says the humorist in the bunk. "Don't yer seehis kerridge is avaitin' to take him to the Hopera?"

&nb
sp; The conversation had got a little loud, and, from the topmost bunk onthe near side, a bullet head protruded.

  "Ain't a cove to get no sleep?" cried a gruff voice. "My blood, if Ihave to turn out, I'll knock some of your empty heads together."

  It seemed that the speaker was a man of mark, for the noise ceasedinstantly; and, in the lull which ensued, a shrill scream broke from thewretched tailor.

  "Help! they're killing me! Ah-h-h-!"

  "Wot's the matter," roared the silencer of the riot, jumping from hisberth, and scattering the Crow and his companions right and left. "Lethim be, can't yer?"

  "H'air!" cried the poor devil--"h'air; I'm fainting!"

  Just then there came another groan from the man in the opposite bunk."Well, I'm blessed!" said the giant, as he held the gasping tailor bythe collar and glared round him. "Here's a pretty go! All the blessedchickens ha' got the croup!"

  The groaning of the man in the bunk redoubled.

  "Pass the word to the sentry," says someone more humane than the rest."Ah," says the humorist, "pass him out; it'll be one the less. We'drather have his room than his company."

  "Sentry, here's a man sick."

  But the sentry knew his duty better than to reply. He was a youngsoldier, but he had been well informed of the artfulness of convictstratagems; and, moreover, Captain Vickers had carefully apprisedhim "that by the King's Regulations, he was forbidden to reply to anyquestion or communication addressed to him by a convict, but, in theevent of being addressed, was to call the non-commissioned officer onduty." Now, though he was within easy hailing distance of the guardon the quarter-deck, he felt a natural disinclination to disturb thosegentlemen merely for the sake of a sick convict, and knowing that, ina few minutes, the third relief would come on duty, he decided to waituntil then.

  In the meantime the tailor grew worse, and began to moan dismally.

  "Here! 'ullo!" called out his supporter, in dismay. "Hold up 'ere! Wot'swrong with yer? Don't come the drops 'ere. Pass him down, some of yer,"and the wretch was hustled down to the doorway.

  "Vater!" he whispered, beating feebly with his hand on the thick oak.

  "Get us a drink, mister, for Gord's sake!"

  But the prudent sentry answered never a word, until the ship's bellwarned him of the approach of the relief guard; and then honest oldPine, coming with anxious face to inquire after his charge, receivedthe intelligence that there was another prisoner sick. He had the doorunlocked and the tailor outside in an instant. One look at the flushed,anxious face was enough.

  "Who's that moaning in there?" he asked.

  It was the man who had tried to call for the sentry an hour back, andPine had him out also; convictism beginning to wonder a little.

  "Take 'em both aft to the hospital," he said; "and, Jenkins, if thereare any more men taken sick, let them pass the word for me at once. Ishall be on deck."

  The guard stared in each other's faces, with some alarm, but saidnothing, thinking more of the burning ship, which now flamed furiouslyacross the placid water, than of peril nearer home; but as Pine went upthe hatchway he met Blunt.

  "We've got the fever aboard!"

  "Good God! Do you mean it, Pine?"

  Pine shook his grizzled head sorrowfully.

  "It's this cursed calm that's done it; though I expected it all along,with the ship crammed as she is. When I was in the Hecuba--"

  "Who is it?"

  Pine laughed a half-pitying, half-angry laugh.

  "A convict, of course. Who else should it be? They are reeking likebullocks at Smithfield down there. A hundred and eighty men pennedinto a place fifty feet long, with the air like an oven--what could youexpect?"

  Poor Blunt stamped his foot.

  "It isn't my fault," he cried. "The soldiers are berthed aft. If theGovernment will overload these ships, I can't help it."

  "The Government! Ah! The Government! The Government don't sleep, sixtymen a-side, in a cabin only six feet high. The Government don't gettyphus fever in the tropics, does it?"

  "No--but--"

  "But what does the Government care, then?"

  Blunt wiped his hot forehead.

  "Who was the first down?"

  "No. 97 berth; ten on the lower tier. John Rex he calls himself."

  "Are you sure it's the fever?"

  "As sure as I can be yet. Head like a fire-ball, and tongue like a stripof leather. Gad, don't I know it?" and Pine grinned mournfully. "I'vegot him moved into the hospital. Hospital! It is a hospital! As dark asa wolf's mouth. I've seen dog kennels I liked better."

  Blunt nodded towards the volume of lurid smoke that rolled up out of theglow.--"Suppose there is a shipload of those poor devils? I can't refuseto take 'em in."

  "No," says Pine gloomily, "I suppose you can't. If they come, I muststow 'em somewhere. We'll have to run for the Cape, with the firstbreeze, if they do come, that is all I can see for it," and he turnedaway to watch the burning vessel.

  CHAPTER VI. THE FATE OF THE "HYDASPES".